Forgotten
by Letting The Rain In
Summary: Caleb feels there's something he's missing, something he'd forgotten. Small Dean fic. Recently nominated in Supernatural fanfics awards. If you enjoyed it, please vote at sensue dot net slash snfa.
1. Chapter 1

**First of all, I'd like to dispel any notion I own anything in this story.**

**Secondly, I'd like to thank Ridley C. James. Not only did she inspire this fic, but she allowed me the use of her characters and the Brotherhood storyline. There may be some inconsistencies of timeline, but I've tried to keep to her back stories as much as possible. **

**Let's just say I'm in awe of her skill.**

Long dark lashes rested on cherubic cheeks. His lips were slightly pursed as if dolling out kisses; little boy promises of forgiveness and absolution.

Caleb didn't feel he deserved them.

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Caleb Reaves was fourteen, on vacation and more than a little pissed off.

He had planned on spending the idle weeks of October break with Jonathon Winchester, hunter extraordinaire and, privately, one of Caleb's heroes, learning all he could absorb from the man.

In fact, he distinctly remembered his father smoothing the road to Pastor Jim's with that particular dangled carrot.

Caleb shot another glare at his Dad. Mackland Ames merely turned the page of the paper he was reading.

"Finish your breakfast, son."

At his side Dean Winchester, oldest son of said hero, did nothing, head bowed over his own bowl. The little snot was watching beneath his deceptively long lashes, however; Caleb could see the glint of green through the dark forest that rimmed the kid's eyes.

The wheels were most definitely turning.

Like ever, the five year old was quiet and still when his father and brother weren't in the room with him. It was almost as if he was trying to blend into the scenery, encouraging the impulse to ignore. It was something he was surprisingly good at. Until he moved, called attention to himself, people tended to forget the child.

Caleb wished someone had forgotten him that morning.

John was getting two year old Sammy ready for a doctor's appointment, and if the screaming was anything to judge by, Sam wasn't impressed with the idea. A particularly loud cry made Dean glance up guiltily, eyes going to the doorway, small body tensed for movement before remembering the current adult sitting with him. Dean's eyes travelled to Mackland, caught the man's own gaze as he observed calmly and promptly dropped his eyes, focusing on his cereal again.

Caleb shook his head in disgust. The kid was jumpier than a cat on hot metal. And weird.

It had been a combination of Dean's weirdness and Jim seeing the potential in John that had led the Winchesters to the Ames's door. Jim had asked for a favour, and the doctor in Mackland hadn't been able to refuse.

_John Winchester was an imposing sight. _

_He was tall, burly, dark. He looked dangerous. He seemed to promise that fact._

_John filled the room, not small by any standards, with his undeniable presence. His mouth was set in a firm, grim line, his black eyes glittered, taking in his surroundings swiftly with a professional's interest, his face seemed aged prematurely by grief and anger and something else Caleb hadn't been unable to identify._

_Caleb, present for the introductions at his father's insistence, was awed. The thirteen year old was not one to give himself over to being in awe of anybody, especially not one of his father's clients - especially not one carrying a sleeping child. But something about the way the man moved, the way he held himself as he was in complete control of his situation called to the young boy, himself struggling his way back to humanity. Caleb Reaves longed to be in control of his destiny the way this stranger appeared to be of his._

_"John, welcome," Caleb's father, adoptive as of several months now, greeted warmly, stepping back and holding out a hand politely._

_Winchester stared at the hand as if he might bite it off for a moment, before remembering his own manners and shaking it roughly. _

_"Mackland," he grunted. "Thanks for agreeing to this."_

_Caleb watched as his Dad retrieved his hand with a smile, tucking it behind his back to wriggle feeling back into his fingers. _

_"Please, call me Mac."_

_John bowed his head in consent. He reached down and pulled another child out from behind him. _

_"This is Dean."_

_The child didn't protest the roughness of his father's grip, didn't acknowledge the man at all. He didn't raise his eyes from his shoes, wasn't curious who his Dad had brought him to, who the teenager was or where they were._

_Mac's smile didn't falter. Caleb was surprised._

'What did you expect, son? I'm a consummate professional, after all.'

_Caleb wasn't surprised, however, to hear the voice in his head. They had, after all, spent several months practising._

'Is this how it's going to be for the rest of the afternoon?' _he asked, unable to keep the sigh out of his unspoken words._

_Mac didn't answer. Instead, he spoke to Dean. _

_"It's nice to meet you, Dean."_

_The kid didn't move. _

'Give it up, Mac,' _Caleb advised. _'Kid's catatonic.'

'Hardly. Merely processing his grief.'

_Winchester was sighing, letting go of Dean to run his free hand down his face. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, awkwardly. "He's been like this a while."_

_"How long?" Mac queried. "Jim didn't go into much detail."_

_"Nearly four months," John replied with a shrug, as if an introverted child was the most trifling of the worries he might have to deal with._

_"Good Lord!" Mac exclaimed, before he could stop himself._

'Smooth. Very professional.' _Caleb couldn't resist the dig. Sometimes Mac was a little too sure of himself._

_"That's quite some time," Mac explained, off the look Winchester shot him. John rested worried eyes on the top of the blond head before searching for the doctor's again. _

_"Think you can fix him?"_

Caleb glanced back at the kid. It had been nearly a year and although Dean was still unsure around people he didn't know, meaning anyone that wasn't his father and brother, he spoke. He interacted. More than that, though. Dean listened.

Caleb thought he was still more than a little weird; speaking rapidly and with confidence when John was present, returning to old habits when he wasn't.

The teenager, despite himself, had been part of the boy's recovery and he wondered that they were missing something. Not that he cared, of course. He was just being ... professional.

_"This is my son, Caleb."_

_The teen smiled, unable to stop the emotion as the pride flowed through the doctor's voice. It was evident the man was still getting a kick out of telling people that. Caleb was still shocked he felt that way in the first place._

_Winchester nodded in his direction, but his attention was focused upon Mac._

_"Caleb's going to take care of Dean while we talk," Ames explained._

_John eyed the teen again. "I thought you were going to talk to _Dean_."_

_"And I will," Mac soothed, gesturing for Caleb to take the little boy off into the corner of the room they had set aside. "First, I'd like to talk to you."_

It had been a long, slow process, but eventually Mac had found Dean Winchester and brought him back. It had been a moment of great relief, although technically it had been little Sam to really start the ball rolling. Apparently the little brat knew who had really been feeding him. Dean seemed to live for the other boy.

Dean was weird all right. And now Caleb was stuck with him all day.

The teenager knew the boy had suffered a huge hurt, knew exactly how the kid felt, actually. But even so, his empathy didn't make him feel any less annoyed at him.

John had been supposed to take Caleb into the forest surrounding Jim's farm and let the kid show him how much he had learnt since they had last trained together. Caleb had been prepared to admit he would return with bruises to make the hardest of hearts melt, but that wouldn't matter. He would be doing. Learning. Actively being a part of the Brotherhood, something his father and the Pastor had belonged to for some time and that John had joined shortly before meeting Mac.

Caleb wanted to be a hunter more than anything. He wanted to fight the things that had taken his family, that had sent him to a padded room, that made him afraid. Instead he was stuck on babysitting duty, once Dean had pipped up about Sammy's appointment. And John had listened, accepting what the kid was telling him without batting an eye.

_How the hell did the kid know that! If John forgot, it couldn't have been important._ Caleb thought, glaring at Dean once more._ Stupid brat._

_Be nice._

Caleb looked up to find his father frowning at him over the top of the morning paper.

_You'll get your chance to show off soon enough._

_I don't see why someone else can't sit with him,_ Caleb sulked.

Mac sighed, causing Dean to glance up once more as if fearful he was causing the sound. Seeing the doctor and his son glaring at each other, Dean went back to pushing his soggy flakes around his bowl. He had decided that he, like Caleb, wasn't going to eat breakfast that morning.

_Jim has things to do; today's the day he visits his parishioners. I'm going to be around, but I really can't have a small boy around, I'm going to be working._

Caleb grunted. Mac had admitted he would be before they had left for the farm.

Dean had said goodbye to his tiny family hours ago. Jim had left too and Mac had retreated into the Pastor's study to work. Dean was alone in the house with Caleb.

Dean wasn't entirely sure what to make of the older boy. On one hand his Dad liked him enough to trust him with Dean, which normally would have been enough, but on the other … he didn't seem to like Dean.

Dean had found himself placed before the TV set with instructions not to bother Caleb while he read his magazine. Dean could tell it was the one his Dad had been reading the night before. It had the same picture of a car on it.

Dean sighed, bored. He glanced at Caleb again. The teen's green eyes, a different green from Dean's own, he knew, were narrowed in concentration and his foot tapped steadily against the floor.

How long did it take for a magazine to be read, anyway? Dean was learning his letters, was quite an adept reader himself and he wondered if he should offer his assistance. Daddy had mentioned Caleb was slow once, laughing at the look on his face and Dean had gotten the impression he wasn't talking about reading, but it _was_ taking ages.

Dean reasoned the magazine might have very small print. Caleb was squinting after all. He looked like he had a headache.

Before he knew what he had done, surprised at his own daring for he didn't like talking to people, Dean got up and went to stand at Caleb's arm. He took a deep breath. Caleb had helped Mac bring him back from the dark place and Dean had learnt you should help those who help you.

"Mr Palin says you can use your finger to help you keep your place."

Caleb turned his head to scowl at him. "What?"

"I like Mr Palin. He's funny," Dean ventured quietly, feeling a little unsure of himself now.

"_You're_ funny, kid," Caleb replied. "And not in the 'ha ha' way."

The five year old took heart in the fact Caleb was talking to him. He took another deep breath and tried again, pulling the sleeves of his jumper over his hands in a nervous habit. "Do you have a headache? You're face is all squished."

"My face is not squished!"

"Are the words very small?" Dean leaned in to take a better look.

Caleb shut the magazine swiftly, his face reddening. "What the hell do you want?"

Far from being phased by the swear word and the rough tone, Dean merely shrugged, locking eyes with the other boy. Caleb felt himself caught by the achingly beautiful orbs, before Dean ducked his head once more, moving away. Again, Caleb was struck by the thought that they were forgetting something.

He sat up straighter and beckoned the younger child back to him. Dean obeyed cautiously. He may have been willing to share advice with the teenager, but that didn't mean he trusted him.

Caleb glanced around towards the door of the room, listening for his Dad. Mac seemed immersed in whatever he was doing, for all was quiet. Caleb reached out tentatively with his mind, to brush it lightly against Deans.

Dean's eyes widened and he gave a funny little gasp. He obviously recognised the teen's touch, remembering it from when he was being helped. He hadn't liked it much then, either, although Caleb hadn't asked why.

"No!" Dean shouted, the thought echoed in his mind and Caleb winced as the thought resounded in his skull, crashing aimlessly along nerves.

Pulling his mind back where it belonged, Caleb, his mind so open at the time, felt another presence. He frowned, not recognising it. It wasn't one of the hunters currently staying at Casa de Pastor.

He pushed against it gently, and it opened, absorbing him instantly. Caleb was elated. He knew the owner of the mind hadn't a clue he was hitch-hiking. He was certainly thinking, however.

_This won't take long. Grab and go. _An image of Dean, obviously remembered from a day or so ago, playing in the light snow outside the kitchen door while the hunters looked on came to the man's mind and Caleb wrenched himself free, uncaring about subtlety.

"Dad!" he shouted, leaving the front room and flinging the study door open.

Mac lifted his head, a small sock clutched in his hand. He had a vague expression on his face, and with a visible effort, he pulled himself away from his work. Caleb grimaced. Mac often helped the police with locating mission people, something other's in his primary profession of neurosurgeon found distasteful.

"Caleb, I'm trying work ..." Mac trailed off as he took in the distraught face of his son, the panic rolling off him. "What is it?"

Caleb found it impossible to try and put into words what he had witnessed. "Dean! Men outside!"

Mac instantly imitated his son's actions, searching with his own mind. "Three of them, damn it! Caleb, where's Dean?"

"I left him in the front room," Caleb gasped. Mac pushed past him to get to the room, Caleb close on his heels, cursing his own stupidity.

"Stop that, he's fine," Mac soothed, unruffled, it seemed. He opened the door, searching for the child of his friend.

"Damn," he grunted, shaking his head and rubbing at a temple. "They've a psychic with them. He's aware we've sensed their intent. We don't have much time."

"Dean?" Caleb called. "Come on, kid, we're the good guys, remember? Where are you?"

Mac scanned the room, unable to use his skill in location as the psychic was leaving his mind open, obviously hoping for more activity. Mac remembered he had always opted to hide behind the sofa as a boy himself and he tugged it away.

"Dean, I need you to come out," he pleaded, eyes going to the windows.

The boy, hugging his knees, shook his head.

Mac forced his voice to remain calm. "Why not?"

Dean again said nothing, but shot a glance at Caleb quickly.

"I'm sorry, I was only trying to help!" Caleb defended swiftly, as his Dad turned to him. "I didn't know he was going to pull this!"

"You tried to read him? Oh, Caleb," Mac sighed.

"Dad, I'm sorry!"

Mac ignored him and focused on the boy again. "Dean, I will speak to Caleb, but for now I need you to go on an adventure with him."

Dean tilted his head to one side, ever so slightly. He had developed quite a repertoire of expressions during the time he had been with Mac, before he found his voice and he was wont to use them when he didn't want to talk. The head tilt indicated curiosity.

"I want you to go with him into the woods and hide, just like you played with your Dad and Jim last night. Caleb will hide with you. I'll come find you later."

Dean frowned, obviously not liking this idea. With some effort, he voiced his concern. "We'll have to hide for a long time?"

Mac smiled softly. Damn, the kid was sharp.

"A while," he agreed. "But Caleb'll take you deep into the woods; show you places you haven't seen yet."

He glanced at the windows again, his heart speeding. He needed to get the boys out of the house, of that he was certain.

"There's only three of them," Caleb hissed as Dean crept out into the open once more. Mac hurried them into the kitchen, checking the doors and windows and acting like a hunter. Caleb grew worried. His Dad was more of a pacifist than a fighter, and it always surprised him when the man shifted into well worn instincts and sharply honed skill.

"Caleb, do as I say."

Mac grabbed Dean's coat; pulling his arms through the sleeves quickly, his eyes continuingly scanning the room. Caleb shrugged into his own jacket as Mac lifted Dean into his arms. The kid suddenly looked nervous.

"Go deep into the woods, don't try to contact me," Mac instructed. He placed Dean into the fourteen year olds arms. "I'll come for you when it's safe."

Dean held himself stiffly away from the teen, who didn't notice. He was completely focused on Mac.

"Dad," he began, but the doctor shook his head.

"It'll be alright, son. Go, quickly now."

Dean wriggled in Caleb's arms. "I don't wanna go," he said, although there was none of the whine so typical of his age present in his voice. "I want Daddy."

"Sorry, kid. You're stuck with me."

"Come on, quickly!" Mac cautiously opened to kitchen door, the one mainly used by Jim's regular guests. Most visitors came through the front door. "I think they're still down on the road."

Caleb crept out and Dean stilled instantly. He understood, in his child's way, how important this was.

Caleb turned back to his father, hovering nervously in the doorway. He raked a hand through his too long dark hair.

"Run!" Mac hissed, eyes scanning the area. "Stay safe, Caleb. Keep the both of you safe."

Caleb gulped back a frisson of fear, nodded once before turning and heading for the waiting line of trees that heralded the beginning of the woods.

He slipped momentarily on ice, hidden by the light snowfall they had had, and glanced down at the small burden he carried in his arms. Dean gazed back at him, before turning to watch the farm become smaller behind them.

Caleb picked up his pace, hunching over in an effort to protect Dean with his own body. God, he felt exposed out in the open land.

He felt Dean stiffen. "Caleb!"

The teen reached the trees, turning, panting, to look back at the farm. Dean twisted so he too could see. The boys watched as three men, merely dots on the horizon, spread out along the farm. Caleb clutched Dean tighter. He backed slowly into the dense woods, until he and the Winchester boy faded from sight.


	2. Chapter 2

**I had to repost this as the breaks I'd put in between 'scenes' didn't come through ...  
**

**Sorry for any inconvenience caused and thanks to those who pointed it out. Also, thanks for the wonderful reviews and to Ridley for the continued support.**

Caleb had set Dean down a while ago.

He had wondered if he should take the child's hand, but Dean had made the decision for him, moving ahead at a steady pace on his sturdy little legs.

Caleb had to hand it to the kid - he had guts. When Caleb had been five he had been spoiled; cocooned and isolated in love and protection. Stuck in snow-damp woods with a virtual stranger would not have been met with the stoic acceptance the child exhibited.

Not that Dean Winchester wasn't loved or protected – he was simply often overshadowed by the hunt.

Dean hadn't spoken since he had uttered the teen's name, calling his attention to the fact the farmhouse had been about to receive unwelcome visitors. In fact, he hadn't even looked at the other boy, seemingly content in his own world.

Caleb almost ran into the five year old as Dean stopped.

"Why the sudden halt, kiddo?" Caleb asked, trying hard to remain patient. Hadn't the brat ever heard of warning a guy?

"This is as far as I've ever been. I don't know where to go now."

There was a small undercurrent of fear in the youthful voice, as well as the pragmatic sense of infant logic.

Caleb looked around. They had reached what appeared to be a very small clearing, a thin stream trickling alongside. John had brought Caleb here a few times, although the teen hadn't recognised the route Dean had taken.

"You remembered your way here?" Caleb asked.

Dean frowned. "I've been here twice," he announced, as if Caleb should have known.

The teen was impressed. "You have?"

He'd been in the forest significantly more times but had soon lost himself in his thoughts. John would not have approved, especially as a small child had taken the lead without his knowing. Caleb recognised Dean's silence now as concentration, something he should have spotted sooner, which did nothing to improve his mood.

Dean looked up at him. "Do you know where we are?"

"'Course I do," Caleb snapped, irritated.

"Where will we go now?"

Caleb sighed, raking a hand through his dark locks before kicking off his shoes and socks.

Holding his footwear in one hand, the fourteen year old stepped towards his young charge, intending to pick him up, but Dean solemnly stepped backwards, eyeing Caleb suspiciously.

"Kid, come on. Unless you want to get wet?" Caleb indicated the water passing by.

Dean turned to face it. "I bet that's cold," he commented seriously.

Caleb grunted, taking his comment as ascent as he scooped the boy up. "I'll let you know."

He was surprised when Dean giggled.

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Mac came round to a drum beat pounding in his skull.

He immediately recognised it as his own blood pulsing, although the knowledge offered little comfort. He amused himself by imaging the various complications a knock to the head could induce.

He had been moved to the barn, tied up and roped to one of the supports. He could taste blood in his mouth and he gingerly ran his tongue over his lips, finding the split in the skin with a wince.

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Although the stream wasn't deep, it was wide and Caleb's gasp of shock as he emerged his bare foot under the chill water, soaking his jeans, caused Dean to tense.

"Does it hurt?" the child wondered.

"Just cold," Caleb breathed, forcing his other foot into the icy water.

Gritting his teeth he waded across, thankful the stream only reached his calves. Still, it was going to be unpleasant waiting for Mac to find them. Caleb hoped he wasn't going to lose any toes to frostbite, glad he had had the forethought to strip off his warm socks and thick sneakers.

Once safely across, Caleb set Dean down, who stepped away instantly as if wanting to put space between himself and the other boy.

Caleb shrugged to himself. Who knew why the brat kept his distance from everyone? What the hell did he know about kids? Especially freaky-ass weird ones who didn't appear to inhabit this plane of existence.

He examined his feet, noticing they were mottled and slightly purplish. Grimacing he wiped as much crap and cold water off them with his hands as he could before putting his shoes and socks back on. The fabric of his jeans felt heavy and stuck against the chilled skin of his lower legs, but it was better than having waded across in full footwear.

Once done, he lifted his head to find Dean gone.

"Shit!" he hissed, scanning the ground for possible tracks. Although light, the settled snow had frozen on the ground and Dean's small feet hadn't made much indentation. Caleb glanced at the lower branches and clumps of dormant bushes that sat scattered around the base of the trees. Dean had been very careful not to brush any of them as he passed.

"I'm going to kill him," Caleb muttered, wondering if it was safe this far away to use his mind the find the little monster.

"Caleb! Come look at this!"

Dean's young, clear voice cut through the quiet forest air.

Cursing once more, Caleb hurried off in the direction of the call.

He found Dean hunched down over a fallen birds nest, snow and ice combining to cause it to sparkle in the weak light.

Dean glanced up at the other boy. "Isn't it cool?"

Caleb grunted. "You can't run off like that, you could get lost."

Dean blinked slowly. "I wasn't lost. I knew where you were."

Caleb gaped at him. He was pretty certain five year olds weren't supposed to employ logic, even if it was somewhat skewed. He shook his head with a frown.

"That's not the point, you little beast. Next time I won't come looking for you."

Dean shrugged, going back to the downed nest.

"Let's keep going," Caleb suggested, moving off. He noticed the little boy didn't follow. "Now, Dean."

It came out sounding like a John Winchesterism and Caleb couldn't stop the smirk from forming as the child responded instinctively.

Seeing it, Dean frowned, hesitant for a moment before running off.

"Dean! Damn it, get back here!"

Caleb soon caught up with the younger child easily, reaching out to grip his arm. Dean twisted away, tripping as he did and landing hard on his knees with a little cry of pain.

Caleb quickly dropped to his knees also, only to have Dean glare at him.

"What?" the teen demanded.

"You're not very nice," Dean commented. He lowered his head to poke at the hole in his jeans. It wasn't large, but Caleb could see the edges were stained with a small amount of blood.

"Let me see."

Dean had obviously retreated into his silence once more as he didn't comment as Caleb rolled up the leg of his denims. Blood flowed freely from a small graze, dirt embedded into the wound.

With a sigh, Caleb scooped up some nearby snow, crushing it in his numbed hand to soften it before placing on the scrape. Dean sat perfectly still as Caleb lay his hand over the snow pack he'd applied, keeping it in place.

Tired of the silence, and feeling slightly guilty that the fall had been his fault; Caleb searched the boy's small face.

"Are you okay?" he ventured.

Predictably, Dean shrugged. Caleb lifted his hand to check the bleeding and noticed out the corner of his eye that Dean winced. Guilt stabbed once more, causing Caleb's own wince.

"I'm sorry," he admitted.

"Why?"

The question caught him unprepared. "What do you mean, 'why'?"

"I tripped. Not your fault."

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry about what happened earlier too."

Dean was silent for a moment, watching as Caleb wiped as much dirt away as he could. He was surprisingly gentle. Dean had expected him to be like his Dad; a little rougher, if just as well meaning.

"I don't like people going into my head," he admitted, softly.

Caleb glanced up. The admission sounded like it cost the boy, so he stopped himself from teasing. "It's not so bad," he replied instead. "Mac's always in _my_ head, just takes some getting used to."

Dean regarded him silently a moment. "I didn't think you'd remember."

Caleb frowned. "Remember what?"

"You don't have to do this, you know," Dean swiftly changed the subject. "Daddy's not here to make you."

"I'm not doing this 'cos John wants me to," Caleb snapped.

"Then why are you? You don't like me."

Caleb found he couldn't look into the honest eyes anymore. Damn the kid and his open expressions. Why did he decide now of all times to lower his natural defences?

Dean took his silence as an agreement. He shrugged, looking away and picking at a stone stuck in the ground beside him.

Caleb almost missed his next, quiet words.

"It's okay. I don't mind."

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"Tell us where the Winchester boy is."

Hot breath whispered onto the back of Mac's neck before the man emerged from behind the post, rounding his captive to stare him in the eye. The proximity of the man told Mac he was certainly not the psychic.

Although he had known the three were planning on taking Dean, Mac still felt a small frisson of fear flutter through him. He fought, and won, not to show it.

"He's safe," the doctor replied with a soft, triumphant smile.

"Where?" the man persisted.

Mac studied him swiftly.

The man was obviously striving for menacing; his hair was unwashed and uncombed, several day's worth of stubble graced his chin in a sporadic pattern that indicated he was unable to grow a beard properly and several small scars adorned his face worn with a mixture of pride and warning.

The doctor smiled once more. This man would be easy to manipulate; if he was careful, Mac could draw him away from the boys.

"He's with his father."

"John Winchester," the other man agreed with a wolfish grin. "We know all about him."

"Then you should be aware of what he'll do to you if you persist with this mission."

"He's good, I'll give him that," the scarred man agreed, stepping back slightly. "So am I."

"You're not remotely in the same class. You're not a hunter."

Yellowed teeth flashed in another smile. "Oh, but I am. There are some who belong to another order just as old as your Brotherhood."

Mac felt the truth of the statement, causing a chill to settle into his veins. The fact the men knew about the secret he belonged to was equally unnerving.

"Just what is it you hunt? I can hardly believe a group exists solely to piss Winchester off."

"This is bigger than John Winchester."

"That's not going to go over well," Mac admitted. "It seems you don't know Johnny as well as you thought."

He tentatively brought his mind into the other's thoughts, planting his own memory of the last time he had watched the Winchesters leave the farm, Dean included. Simultaneously, he sought to find what they wanted the little boy for.

Images of a yellow eyed demon flickered in the man's subconscious mind, a voice rasping he needed the Winchester boy to correct his mistake.

"We know enough," the man was responding. Mac reluctantly acknowledged he'd spent too long in the man's mind and retreated once more. "We've been shadowing him for months, waiting for our chance to take the boy."

Mac shook his head, carefully. "Which you've wasted. Dean left with his family today. They've gone."

The man frowned, stopped in the moment of refuting Mac's conviction.

"You saw them," Mac pushed.

"I …"

"He's playing you for a fool, Cohen."

Mac cursed silently as a second figure entered the barn. Unlike his colleague, he was small and clean but no less dangerous.

"I did warn you, Brian," he added humourlessly.

With a roar of frustration, Cohen drove his fist into the stomach of his captive.

Blinking through the pain, Mac erected mental barriers, knowing this man was the psychic he had felt earlier blocking him.

"Some you win, some you lose," the second man commented quietly.

"It was worth a shot," Mac gasped in agreement.

"Commendable," the smaller man replied expressionlessly. He sat on an upturned crate. "Now, Doctor Ames, tell me where I can find Dean Winchester."

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It had started to snow again.

Small, light flakes flickered like fairies through the early evening light languidly and Caleb glanced at his watch. He and Dean had been out in the woods for several hours now and the fear that clenched his stomach squeezed at the realisation.

The Pastor and John would be returning to the farm soon. More importantly, Mac should have been searching for them by now. Although he kept his mind to himself, Caleb also left it open, ready for his father's thought. It was draining, which the teen found ironic, expending energy doing nothing.

He glanced at the small boy beside him. Dean had lifted his face to the snowfall; letting the flakes settle on his rounded cheeks, cling to his long eyelashes and tickle his nose. If he was worried, he certainly wasn't showing it.

Caleb raked a hand through his hair, glancing about him. This was as far as he had been and he didn't want to risk becoming lost by going further. He spotted a dense clump of trees, curved in a small U-shape that would provide some protection from the elements. The sky would darken soon; they would need to hole up for the night.

The teen explained his plan to Dean, who had been allowing the flakes to settle on his tongue. Dean glanced at the makeshift shelter Caleb indicated with a frown.

"Can I play some more?"

The question was unexpected. Dean wasn't a child given over to innocent play. He usually busied himself with keeping his brother happy, keeping their father in his field of vision or quietly drawing on the brightly coloured paper Mac was so intent on thrusting his way.

Caleb nodded, unable to say no when he realised this might be the first time Dean had had time to do something he wanted since his mother had died.

"Stay where I can see you," Caleb cautioned, smiling when Dean's face lit up, causing his big eyes to sparkle.

He hadn't said much since Caleb had been unable to offer anything to refute his observation.

It wasn't that he didn't like the child, but something about his tortured psyche burned along the teen's own healing scars in a way that made Caleb wary of him. It wasn't the memories or the pain that caused him to back away, though, it was Dean himself. He had built strong defences that allowed no-one inside and Caleb felt he didn't have the strength to assault those walls on such a level. He had long since decided Dean's healing had to come from someone far stronger than himself.

Watching Dean scrape together a pitifully small amount of the thin snow in a rough approximation of a snowman, Caleb hoped John would realise the burden he placed on his son in time. Dean had forgotten how to be a child, but he was slowly, with the help of his playful little brother, learning and would be a boy again if only John allowed him the chance.

Caleb reached up and shook an overhanging branch, hardly laden with the white snow, but easier to deal with than the frozen mess on the ground. It landed with a little lump next to Dean, who turned to look at the teen quizzically, an expression far too old on his little face.

Silently, Caleb shook another branch, creating another small pile. He nodded to the boy, who hesitantly gathered it around his snowman to build it up, beginning to smile when a third pile appeared by him.

Caleb sat down, watching him work, his small face set seriously.

_Let Dean be a child any way he can,_ he thought. _Talking's overrated anyway._


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay, just so you know, I'm twisting the show a little to fit in with my story. You'll see what I mean at the end of this chapter. It's not twisted very far, don't worry.**

**Thanks for all the lovely reviews, keep 'em coming, I like to know if I'm making a pigs ear out of this! I'm trying to keep to Ridley's Brotherhood as much as I can – honest!**

Jim Murphy smiled when he saw his home come into view. It was always nice to come home to a full house.

His smile faded when he noticed none of the lights were on in any of the windows, despite the sun beginning to set in the dull, grey sky, the strength of light an early darkness typical of the time of year.

The Pastor paused momentarily to take stock of his surroundings and to gauge if anything was out of place. It took a few moments but he saw the careful prints leading up to the farm. Someone had visited and taken pains not to show it.

He adopted a slow pace, blending into the shadows with an ease as natural as breathing. It had been some time since he had actively taken part in a hunt, but he had made sure his skills hadn't dulled.

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It was still snowing, light wisps that danced on the wind and melted on skin. Dean hugged his small body against the chill, smiling proudly at his lopsided snowman.

Caleb stood beside him.

It was surprising, watching the change come over the five year old as he had methodically patted the snow into the right shape, to see a child emerge from the shell of a silent, hurting soul.

"It's good, kid," Caleb commented.

Dean's smile widened. "My mum helped me build forts, but she always let me make the guard on my own."

"Do you want to try to build a fort?" the teen asked hesitantly.

"No," Dean replied, shaking his head. "We've got one already."

Caleb glanced in the direction of the curve of trees he had located earlier.

While Dean had been working – playing – Caleb had been busy himself. He had pulled on brittle branches until they snapped, laying them crossed over one another to form a shelf in an attempt to shelter them further. There was gaping holes in it, but it would be better than nothing.

"We should get inside, kiddo. It's getting dark."

Dean sighed, glancing around them. Deep in the woods, the weak light was struggling to reach them.

He nodded and the two boys settled themselves uncomfortably. Caleb felt the silence press onto him. While they had been walking, or busy with their 'projects', there had been no need to talk, but now, sitting side by side in the small space, Caleb felt awkward.

Apparently Dean picked up on it, for he lifted his head to the other boy's.

"You like noise," he commented. Without waiting for a reply, he pressed on. "You can talk, if you want. I don't like to, much, but it makes Daddy happy, so I do. If it makes you happy, I can."

Caleb found himself at a loss for something to say, himself. Realising Dean was opening up to him in a way he had never done before, Caleb cautioned himself not to blow it. He wished Mac were there to stop him putting his foot in it.

"That's, er," he swallowed, "that's good. To know. Thanks, Dean."

The little boy nodded solemnly, his childishness of a few moments ago retreating behind the oh-so-serious mask.

Caleb mentally kicked himself. Dean was pushing himself to do something he wasn't comfortable with to ease Caleb's own worries, wanting to help, not understanding why but knowing it was important. That was what un-nerved the teen so much, he decided. He was continuously throwing him for a loop.

He found the small face waiting expectantly.

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Jim circled the house carefully. Although he could see no signs of presence, worrying enough in itself, he couldn't shake the foreboding sensation he was being watched.

In the barn, Mac saw the other psychic sit straighter.

He had identified himself as Warren Delanely, his predator's smile wide as Cohen had acted as his muscle. The third member of the group, spoken to as 'Red' presumably in reference to his hair, stayed out of the way, keeping his eye to the small crack in the barn door's join.

Delanely turned. "Red?"

The man nodded once.

Instantly Mac sent out his mind in an effort to warn whoever had returned, encountering the blocks Delanely had set in his way. Weakened by the physical pain his body was in, Mac struggled valiantly to fight Delanely.

He sensed the Pastor's presence briefly. "No, Jim!" he hissed.

Delanely, his teeth gritted in intense concentration, pushed Mac's mind back. The doctor struggled harder. Just as he thought he was going to break through, Cohen drew back his arm, let his fist fly and connected to the doctor's jaw.

Mac's concentration broke immediately as the new pain flared, messing with his psychic abilities and rendering him next to useless.

Delanely raised an eyebrow at the unshaven man.

"Didn't want to take the risk you couldn't hold him," he shrugged, an easy grin spreading across his face.

Delanely glanced at Red. "Invite our guest inside."

Red, a silent man not given over to letting his expression move his facial muscles nodded and slipped outside.

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When Mac opened his eyes, it was to find Jim tied to the support next to him.

"Damn," he smiled. "There're good."

"He said they'd kill you if I resisted," the Pastor admitted. "I thought it best to err on the side of caution."

"Well, I must say I appreciate that," Mac murmured. He closed his eyes with a sigh.

"Mackland? You still with me?"

The doctor lifted his heavy lids at the worried tone of his friends voice.

"I'm here, Jim. There's a psychic on the team. I'm attempting to keep him out of our heads."

Jim frowned. "Are you succeeding?"

"Not sure. Mostly," Mac replied.

"What can you tell me?"

"They want Dean."

The Pastors eyes widened in fear. "What for?" he demanded.

"The boy's got something, some memory locked in his subconscious."

The other man opened his mouth to question the psychic further, but was cut off.

"Jim, if they find him, Delanely will rip it from his mind. It could damage him irrevocably."

"Is he safe?" Jim queried shortly, his voice quick with anger.

"For now. I won't tell you where," the doctor added, smiling wanly.

"Best not. I assume Caleb's with him?" Receiving a nod of confirmation, the Pastor let out a breath. "Do you know what this memory is? What they want with it?"

"I didn't get very far, before Delanely put a stop to my search. I heard something about a mistake needing to be corrected. I think Dean witnessed something. I don't know what, but I saw yellow eyes."

"Yellow eyes?" Jim repeated softly.

Mac didn't notice the fear flowing into his friend's voice, a sign his attention was elsewhere. Mac was a very perceptive man and this caused the Pastor more consternation.

Mac had very obviously suffered; he was fighting to stay with Jim.

"I keep thinking, when I think of those eyes, that I'm missing a connection," he said.

"Keep working on it, Mac," Jim instructed. "I think it's important."

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Caleb looked into the small face and wondered when he had started to care.

It had been easier not to; not to notice the pain in the expressive eyes, not to want to heal it and not to fear failing.

He licked his lips nervously, before reaching out tentatively to rest his hand on Dean's shoulder. "Kid," he faltered.

"My Dad calls me Ace," Dean commented softly. "Do you think he'll come for us soon?"

"Yeah, he'll be here before you know it," Caleb smiled, hoping it was true.

The five year old was silent a moment.

"You can call me Ace, too, if you want," he offered cautiously, still wary of the teen.

"Nah," Caleb replied instantly, his mind going to the worn book on his bedside table and the card tucked inside. Both items had come from men he greatly admired and both had been given in memories so strong Caleb often thought he was unable to stand without them.

He squeezed Dean's shoulder. "You're a Deuce."

"A Deuce?"

"Sure," Caleb smiled, remembering his father's words. "The wild card of the pack."

Dean thought about it a moment. "Is that good?" he asked anxiously.

"It's good, Dean," Caleb laughed.

The boy's face broke into a smile and for the first time in a long, Dean Winchester laughed.

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John Winchester lifted his sleeping son from the car, smiling slightly to himself.

It had been a long day, although the doctor's appointment itself hadn't taken long. He had had to take the not quite two year old to the park, buy him a toy and generally amuse him for a day in penance of the booster shot Sammy had received.

While he knew he should have perhaps included Dean in the day's activities, Mac had suggested letting Caleb care for him instead.

"_It'd do him good, both of them, actually, to spend some time together. Caleb needs to learn responsibility."_

"_I agree, Mac, but does he have to practise on my son?"_

"_Dean needs to spend time with other's outside his immediate family," the doctor insisted. "He knows Caleb well enough not to panic."_

_John did not look convinced. Mac smiled softly._

"_Dean'll be fine."_

"_I'd best not come home to bloodshed," John had warned._

_Mac had grimaced. "Whose?"_

Now he headed towards the house, pausing as Jim had done when he noticed the lights weren't shining.

He glanced around, his hand moving to Sam's head in an effort to protect the baby.

His nerves were strung taut; he knew at gut level something was very wrong. He was proved right when two figures cautiously moved into view.

"Make a fuss, and your friend dies," a stranger's voice informed him. "Sacrifice him and the good Pastor joins him in the otherworld. Do we have an understanding?"

John's eyes met with those of Mac's. The doctor was in bad shape, supported by the stranger's bracing arm across his chest, his breathing suggestive of either broken or cracked ribs.

"They want Dean, John," the doctor warned. "Don't give in."

"Shut UP!" The man holding Mac snarled, his voice rising. "I'm getting sick of your interference. Realise, you're expendable."

"Kill him and you won't live to see the sun rise," John warned.

"Get into the barn, Winchester," the dark haired man growled. "No sudden movements, Red's got a wicked aim and an itchy trigger finger. Shame to see a child's blood spilt on account of a little misunderstanding."

John paled and glanced once more into the agonised eyes of his friend, before nodding slowly and heading in the direction of the small shack that housed Jim's rescued horses.

He kicked his foot against the door. "My name is John Winchester. I'm coming in. I'm unharmed."

He glanced behind him at the dark, dirty man who held Mac against him as a human shield. "Tell them," he demanded.

The man smirked. "No need, my friend."

"The third man's a psychic," Mac supplied, letting the hunter know how many they were dealing with, wincing when Cohen's arm tightened across him.

"Get in there," he ordered.

John kicked the door open, softly so it opened slowly, worried about the threat to Sam.

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Caleb felt Dean shiver next to him.

The little boy had lent his head against Caleb in a trusting manner he hadn't displayed before. Even with Jim and Mac, each of whom had taken to the boy and strived to make things easier for him, Dean held himself back.

Caleb wondered if he should take the boy off the frozen ground. It was beginning to snow harder now, the wind blew through the trees and into the rough shelter and the child was obviously suffering. The teen remembered John saying something about sharing body heat as a means of survival, but Dean was never comfortable sharing his personal space. Still, he was pressed pretty tightly against his side.

Feeling him shiver again, Caleb came to a decision.

He roused Dean, who had fallen into something of a stupor; boredom, cold and the long walk all factoring into it, not to mention the adrenaline high having worn off hours ago.

"Deuce?"

Dean raised his head, another chill raking his small frame. "Yeah?"

"I'm going to put you in my lap. There's no reason both of us should suffer on the ground."

Dean looked somewhat apprehensive. "I'm okay," he ventured softly. "You don't have to."

Caleb tried to smile. "I know I don't have to. But your Dad'll kick my ass if you catch cold."

"Yeah, he would," Dean agreed. He clambered awkwardly into Caleb's lap, sitting sideways, poker straight, his hands clasped before him and holding as much of himself away from Caleb as he could manage without falling onto the ground again.

The teen sighed. Taking the edges of his winter coat, bought slightly larger than he needed as Mac was convinced the teen was going to hit another growth spurt, he wrapped his arms, coat and all, around the boy, pulling him against his chest.

Dean remained as stiff as before.

"Relax, Deuce," Caleb sighed again. "I won't tell anyone. It's not as if I want my reputation as a bad ass hunter tarnished by the revelation I cuddled you."

"You're not a bad ass hunter," Dean pointed out. "My Dad still teaches you."

"Hey, I've been on a few," Caleb insisted. "I'm in the progress of building my career."

Dean snorted, beginning to relax against the older boy. Caleb smiled over the top of the child's head.

"Why do you think he trusts me to take care of you?" he asked, reaching inside the coat to tickle the boy's tummy.

Dean squirmed away with a little giggle. "'Cause you're cheaper than a babysitter and your Daddy makes him."

Caleb grimaced. Dean was smarter than he let on. He was going to make a good hunter in time; his perceptiveness was going to give him an edge.

"You're a little snot; you know that, don't you?"

"Nah," Dean replied, snuggling a little into the warmth Caleb provided. "I'm a wild card."

"I shouldn't have told you that," Caleb muttered, warmed beyond imagining at the little boy's trust. He realised that, in all the time he had known the Winchesters, he had never had so much as a conversation with Dean. He was beginning to understand he was consistent in his surprises, at the very least.

"What are you?"

The question took Caleb by surprise and he felt his heart triple in time.

Dean obviously sensed his reaction, as he pulled away again to look the teen in the face.

"If I'm a Deuce." he clarified. "What are you?"

Caught once more by the brilliance of Dean's soul seeing eyes, Caleb found himself whispering; "I think I'm a demon."

Dean tilted his head a little, a small frown creasing his brow. "You don't look like a demon," he commented seriously.

Caleb was struggling to take his eyes away from the child. He had just admitted a fear to a five year old which he had determinedly refused to acknowledge to himself. He was horrified at what he had done.

"Are you like that boy in that film?"

Caleb forced himself back into the world. "What?" he croaked.

"Damien. Are you like him?"

Caleb felt the laughter bubbling insanely inside him, a reaction to the whirlwind of emotions he was currently trying to return to their boxes. "That was a mistake, letting you watch that."

Dean regarded him seriously again. "I don't think you're a demon," he announced gravely. "My Daddy would have to kill you and he doesn't want to do that."

"That's good to know," Caleb struggled.

"And you don't feel like a demon."

Caleb smiled; grateful the kid was convinced, at least. "You know what a demon feels like, do you squirt?"

Dean met his gaze with the quiet certainty of a man of fifty. "Yes."

Cold fear settled in the pit of the teen's stomach.

"How do you know that?" he asked quietly. "Dean? How do you know?"

Dean dropped his head. "You don't remember," he sighed. "I didn't think you did."

"Remember what?" Caleb asked carefully.

The child shook his head.

"Dean?" Caleb prompted.

"When the fire took mummy," he murmured hesitantly, raising his eyes once more. "There was a demon. It made me see things and I showed you and Mac and nobody remembers. It hurt, when you made me go from the dark place, but I missed Daddy and Sammy needed me and I had to come with you and Mac, so I did, but it hurt."

Caleb stared at Dean, aghast. "What things did it make you see?"

Dean was retreating once more, his eyes wide and fearful. He was shaking his head hard. "I shouldn't have said that," he protested, trying to wriggle out of Caleb's arms. "I'm sorry, forget it again, it doesn't matter."

"Deuce, stop that," Caleb chided, holding the boy tighter, his fear deepening. Something was very wrong, he knew it. He knew he had forgotten something about the time spent in Dean's mind, searching for a way to reach him. "Dean, I'm not going to let you go. Stop struggling."

"I want to go, let me go!"

Caleb held the boy against him tightly. "What did you see, Dean?"

The child went limp against him, knowing he was defeated by Caleb's strength.

His voice barely audible, he whispered one word. "Fire."

Caleb paused, wondering how to phrase his next question. "From when your …"

Dean shook his head, and then nodded. "Other fires too. I wasn't there, but I remember them. And it hurts when someone goes into my head, 'cause I don't think the memories are supposed to be there. They're not mine, Caleb. I know the demon left them there."

"Maybe you just had nightmares," Caleb offered weakly. "It's natural, after what you saw."

Dean was crying now, pressing his face against the teen's chest so hard Caleb could hardly make out the words.

"I remember mummy in the fire in our house, but I didn't see her," he sobbed. "Daddy found me in the hall and gave me Sammy."

Swallowing, Caleb attempted to bring moisture back to him mouth. "What do you mean?"

Dean raised his tear streaked face to meet Caleb's eyes. "I never saw her, but I remember her burning!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks to the fabulously talented Supernoodle for pre-reading this for me and supporting me all the way through. Her insights are invaluable. Love ya, girl!**

Caleb clutched Dean tightly to him. He could feel the child trembling with the force of his sobs, and he stared over the top of his head, unable or unwilling to comprehend Dean's anguish.

He wished his father, or John was there with them more than ever.

"I'm sorry," Dean hiccupped in his arms, bringing his attention back to the small boy.

The fear in his voice and his unusual display of emotion gave Caleb reason to believe, or attempt to, what Dean was telling him.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" Caleb whispered, running his hand up and down the boy's shaking back.

"I did!" Dean shouted, startling the older child. "I told Mac, but he didn't remember, and I told you and you don't remember! It hurt to show you, but I did anyway. And you did nothing! You forgot me!"

"I'm sorry," Caleb whispered, shocked by the outburst. While it wasn't the first time he had been on the end of Dean's temper, the child had chosen to retreat into himself further at the time, not lash out.

The teen saw Dean furtively wipe at his nose, the flash of crimson almost missed in the waning light.

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John entered the barn slowly, Sam hidden by his arms and hands as much as possible. A redheaded man stood near the door, a rifle aimed intently, his face impassive as he watched Winchester move slowly forward.

A second man, small and calm, was sitting casually upon an overturned crate. This, John reasoned, was the psychic.

"Mr Winchester, welcome," he smiled, as if greeting him at a Sunday barbeque. "I advise you to stand very still while we deal with the good Doctor."

John did as he was told, watching as Mac was lashed to a support post, the Pastor bound to the next one. He shifted Sam carefully in his arms. The boy hadn't woken yet, which was a miracle in itself and he worried what would happen when he did and found strangers instead of his brother.

It was a little ritual the boys had; they always found one another the moment they woke up. Dean was usually the first to rise, coming over to sit with Sam until the baby opened his eyes. No matter if Sam had been put down for a nap while Dean stayed up, the older brother had an uncanny ability to know when Sam was going to wake and made sure he was the first person Sam saw.

John knew exactly who was to blame for that little scenario.

It was as if Dean was promising his brother he would never leave him the way their mother did, and reinforcing that promise the only way he could think of, by actually being there.

This, John realised, was going to be a problem.

Once Mac was secure, the man who'd met John outside strode towards him, grinning wickedly. The redhead, yet to speak, had his sights squarely on father and son and that alone was giving John grey hairs.

"Where's Dean?" he asked, deciding to break the silence and be the first with demands.

"We were rather hoping you'd tell us," the psychic shrugged. "Or at least, know where he might have hidden. I've never been good at location the way your friend here is."

"Then you'll never find him," Mac told him wearily. "I know you can target psychic ability and you know Dean has none. He's lost to you, Delanely."

"True," the man agreed amiably. "However, I also know _your_ son was here and I know he has the talent. All you have to do to end this tiresome situation is call to him. He'll be left unharmed if he gives over the Winchester boy."

Mac shook his head, wincing. "Forgive me if I don't believe your intentions are good."

"Very well," Delanely sighed. He gestured to the unkempt dark haired man. "Cohen, bring me the child."

Cohen grabbed Sam roughly, waking him abruptly while John held on tightly, refusing to give his son to this dangerous stranger.

"John!" Jim warned his eyes wide with fear.

"May I remind you there is a gun aimed at you?" Delanely asked blandly, over Sam's frightened cries. "You'll be no use to either son dead, Mr Winchester."

John wanted to punch the damn smile off his face, but carefully gave Sam over to Cohen, who held the squirming little boy awkwardly, dumping him unceremoniously on the psychic. John gritted his teeth angrily while Cohen shoved him roughly against the wall, there being no pillars to hand. The gunman was still trained intently on him.

John looked anxiously to his son when the cries stopped. Sam was still, too still for him and he was staring up at the psychic's face, mouth open in a little 'o' of surprise.

"What are you doing?" his father demanded roughly.

"Well, well," the man murmured. "He has quite some power, doesn't he? But he doesn't have what I'm looking for, that's all Dean's, it appears."

"What do you mean?" the pastor, who been watching through narrow eyes, asked.

"I mean this Winchester child is nothing to me. Expendable."

"No!" John shouted in anguish. "He's just a baby!"

Delaney turned with a raised eyebrow. "Very well. Tell me where to find Dean and this child shall remain unharmed."

John gapped. Delaney stood, moved closer, lowering his voice.

"You will have both your children returned to you, John. Tell Dean to give me what I want and they'll both be alive and well. Or Sam here will die and Dean will be destroyed."

He paused a beat.

"It's a simple enough decision, John. Or are you willing to risk your son's for this Brotherhood? Tell me, Winchester, which do you value more?"

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Caleb bent his head and reached into the cocoon of his coat to tip the boy's face to him. "Dean?"

Eyes blinking wide, breathing deep to calm himself – a fact not lost on Caleb that no five year old, anywhere, should know how or why to do that – Dean let the older boy see him.

"I'm okay," he whispered.

Caleb took in the sorry sight before him. Blood was smeared across Dean's upper lip, having obviously fallen from his nose. Tears clung to dark lashes, while their predecessor's tracks shone wetly on his cheeks. The crying seemed to have crystallised the moss green irises so they shone with an intensity seldom seen in the usually downcast eyes.

Caleb swallowed. He could understand now why Mac and Jim had fallen for this child. One look at this suffering little boy and Caleb felt his heart constrict, his throat close.

"You're not okay," he whispered huskily, contradicting him. "But I'm going to make sure you get there."

The teen fished in his pocket for a clean tissue, something his father slipped into all his coats despite Caleb's objections or eye rolling. He dabbed tenderly at the blood, frowning when more flowed in its wake. Dean sat very still, seeming to hold his breath.

Caleb knew what he was doing. An old memory washed over him.

"_Why can't he just let us see what's going on in there?" Caleb demanded angrily. _

_He was frustrated by Dean Winchesters stubborn refusal to give up total control to the two psychics. He'd also ignored his own father's commands in such a way as to cause the big man helpless pain._

"_He has trust issues, son," Mac explained gently. "Letting us in completely shows he's close to us. He's afraid if he gets close to people, they'll leave him. He's worried they'll go like his mother did and he's protecting himself the only way he knows how."_

"_I don't want to get close to him," Caleb sulked. "I just want this over with."_

_Mac sighed. "He's four, Caleb. He doesn't really understand and we have to be patient with him. He'll get there."_

"_Before or after I turn twenty?"_

Caleb felt a stirring of guilt. He had been unkind to Dean's pain, ignorant and belligerent to his hurt and now the kid didn't know how to let him help.

The teen found he was making soothing sounds as he mopped up the running blood. Almost instinctively, Dean had tilted his head, his eyes half closed as if trying to remember a distant dream or memory.

"That's it," Caleb murmured, pleased to see the bleeding was stopping. "You're doing good, Dean."

The boys were silent a moment, Dean's occasional hitches the only sound breaking the quiet.

Caleb, bringing Dean close against him again, used the time to search his thoughts.

Although he could find no trace of the memory Dean had shown him while connected to his mind, he hadn't been able to escape that nagging feeling of having forgotten something for a long time. It felt that when the child looked at him a certain way, he grew more sure he was missing something, but once Dean looked away, that feeling was shoved to the back of his mind and he didn't think of it again until the next time it happened.

"Does that happen often, Dean?"

Dean sighed softly. "When I think about the fires."

He winced, bringing a small hand to his forehead.

"Deuce? You okay, kid?"

"It hurts more," Dean moaned quietly, closing his eyes. Caleb brought his hand up to cup the back of Dean's head but before he could say anything, the child sagged in his arms, limp and heavy.

"Dean!"

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Dean had been unconscious for nearly half an hour.

Caleb had tried calling his name, pinching his ears and patting his face, but the child hadn't responded to anything. He remained still and pale.

Lying in Caleb's arms, Dean suddenly seemed every inch the five year old and nothing like the brave little boy who, acting far older than his years, would willingly put aside his own pain to ease other's in a move that many adults wouldn't contemplate.

Caleb was considering his last option. Waiting wasn't going to cut it, he had no idea how long or why Dean had passed out and now Caleb was preparing himself for the last resort.

He was going to go back into Dean's mind.

The teen was aware it was risky – it'd more than likely result in bringing the unknown hunters straight to them, but in case that happened, Caleb had worked out a back-up plan.

John had always told him to be prepared, after all.

Caleb took one more deep breath and closed his eyes.

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John opened his eyes.

He'd shut them to block out the image of his baby held in Delanely's arms. Unfortunately, it allowed the image of his other baby to surface behind his eyelids, Dean's mind shattered by the force of the psychic's power seeking and ripping information he was unwilling to give up.

Dean would be unwilling, too.

He'd fight with everything he had not to give this stranger who had frightened his brother – frightened his father, too, for that matter – what he wanted, on the principle that Mac had hidden him from the man.

Dean was like that. Instinctive. He would dislike these men fiercely, even had he simply met them in the street.

Delanely gave him a small, cold smile, gently running a thin finger down Sammy's rounded cheek. The tiny boy shivered, but kept quiet.

John growled low in his throat, a predator warning its prey, a wild animal determined to protect it's young.

Delanely halted, lifting his head from John's gaze suddenly.

"Ah, saved by the teenager," he murmured condescendingly, before turning his gaze onto Mac.

"You put too much faith in your son, doctor," he smiled. He came back to John, thrusting the man's small child into his arms.

"Cohen," he called, nodding to the door. The man smiled evilly, lifting his own gun from where it rested against the wooden side of the barn.

"For Heaven's sake, they're children!" Jim snapped. "Leave your weapons."

Cohen curled his upper lip in a smirk and opened the door, slinging the gun's strap over his shoulder.

Delanely glanced at Mac.

"If you can communicate with him, tell your son not to try anything stupid. As long as he behaves, he won't get hurt."

Mac's voice was low with weariness. "Caleb won't give you Dean."

"Then you shall grieve."


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks so much for all the support and kind words throughout this fic. I really do appreciate them, all of them! **

**Thanks again to Ridley for her trust during the telling of this tale and for her unbelievable shout-out during her incredible story 'Paper Tiger'. Wow!**

**And I'm still far from owning any of this…**

Caleb opened his eyes to a world of shifting darkness.

He could feel it pulsing around him; rolling and folding over itself continuously, pushing against his unnatural presence within Dean's mind.

Caleb ignored it, he was well used the mind's tricks, choosing instead to concentrate on seeking Dean out. Unlike the hunter's open mind he had unwittingly brushed against earlier that day, the five year old was determinedly not thinking. Caleb couldn't feel him anywhere.

The teen sighed in exasperation. He knew Dean wasn't doing it to annoy him, knew that the child was simply defending himself from whatever pain lurked within his memory, but he also wasn't making it easy for Caleb. There wasn't really time for an extended game of hide and seek.

Caleb mentally formed a picture of the child, a happy memory of his own as he remembered the kid building the snowman only a few hours ago.

Light began to appear before the teen. He squinted against its sudden brightness within the imposing dark. Caleb added the feel of Dean pressing into him, warm and safe within Caleb's arms and the pair wrapped against the chill in Caleb's thick winter coat.

The light formed into thin horizontal stripes before him.

"What the hell?" he murmured curiously.

A small figure stepped out of the darkness beside him. In the reflected glow of the strips of light, Caleb made out Dean's pinched, pale features. As his eyes accustomed to the semi-darkness, Caleb saw that the lines of light were shining through slats. He made out hinges and a barely concealed join and realised he was looking at a door.

"Dean?" he queried softly, alarmed when the boy flinched.

Caleb could feel the soft press of clothes hanging behind him now and he glanced at the kid once more.

"We're in a closet?" he guessed.

Dean said nothing. He stared ahead as if Caleb hadn't spoken, as if he didn't exist.

"Whatever works for you, man, it's your mind," the teen shrugged. "Although I think I'm going to have to have a serious talk with Johnny when we get out of this."

Dean sighed softly and moved forward, lifting his fingertips to rest between the wooden slats of the door, his eyes level with an opening.

Caleb frowned, before mimicking Dean's position.

Fire greeted his startled eyes and suddenly he could hear the roar of the flames, the shrieking of a woman, the cries of a child. Pulling back once more into the silence of the closet, Caleb stared in horror at Dean. The little boy had yet to move from his post.

Caleb found his heart was racing, beating against his chest in unnatural, uneven thumps. Was this how it always was for Dean? This fear? The never-ending noise? The Goddamned _heat_? There was no wonder anymore why Dean had retreated so far into himself after the fire. Had he seen this? Was he forced to relive it time after time?

Caleb was astounded the kid wasn't a screaming, gibbering lunatic.

Another thought took hold, unwelcome and disturbing. Was this Sam and Dean's mother screaming?

Taking a steadying breath, Caleb once more approached the door. He had a clean view of the fire drenched room and he could clearly see the mother above the crib, could hear the child wailing at the noise and heat.

To his absolute horror, John appeared, snatching the bundled infant out of the crib.

Sammy.

He raced out of the room as his wife, no longer screaming, continued to burn. Above the howl of the fire, Caleb could make out a frightened cry of '_Daddy!_'

Dean.

"_Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don't look back. Now, Dean! Go!"_

Dean hadn't been in this room while his mother burnt. He shouldn't possess this memory.

The image flickered and the heat abruptly disappeared. Another room, another crib appeared.

A woman with short brown hair was singing softly, rocking an infant in her arms. As the song finished, she gently placed the baby into its cot. Smiling, she bent over, running her hand lightly over the child's hair. The image blinked; the cool of the night replaced by the intense heat of another fire.

Startled, Caleb pulled away with a small cry.

"Enough Dean!" he called, reaching out to prise the silent, emotionless boy away. Dean flinched again, twisting away from him.

A low snarl emerged from Dean's throat.

"Don't touch me!" he screamed. "You're not real!"

Caleb was confused. The kid looked wild, feral. "Dean, it's me!"

"No! You _can't_ be in here!"

Dean was quickly becoming hysterical, backing away and shaking.

"I don't want you here," he moaned hoarsely, his voice worn by his emotional shouting. "This is my safe place."

The words and the tone they were said in tore at Caleb. He knelt before the distraught little boy.

"Dean, it's ok. It's me, it's really me."

Dean shook his head, moaning in agony and Caleb was worried to notice the appearance of the blood once more above his lip. "No."

Caleb stretched out a hand. "Deuce," he murmured and Dean's eyes snapped to his own, blinking owlishly.

He held his breath, head tilted. "Caleb?"

"It's time to go, kid. You gotta wake up."

Dean swallowed. His soft voice, when he spoke, broke Caleb's heart.

"Is Daddy here?"

"No, honey, not yet. But you can't stay here. I don't think it's good for you."

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John watched the lone gunman guarding him silently.

John was proud of his physicality, knew he could beat most men, out-react most of them too, but this silent, dangerous man hadn't flexed a muscle since his companions had left. He gave the appearance he could hold that gun to his shoulder all night and not once move. He was like a statue.

His eyes didn't move, either. It was getting unnerving. John hoped to hell he'd blink soon, or he might be forced to risk poking him.

But what John most definitely didn't like above all else was the fact the gun wasn't trained on him, but rather on his young son.

Sammy had also been unusually quiet since he had met Delanely. John was going to tear the man's throat out if he found he'd done anything to the baby. He hoped the kid was just reacting to the tension surrounding him, vibrating in his father's muscles, cloying the air.

Looking up he met the Pastor's worried eyes and together they turned to Mac.

The psychic was far off, whether communicating with Caleb or suspended in pain, it was hard to tell.

John hadn't seen Mac hurt often, for he rarely participated in the actual _hunting_ part of the hunt. He was a research man, and a sound one at that, and it was practical to keep his more active role in the hunt confined to a safe place, where with his mind so preoccupied, he wouldn't become a liability to another hunter, or to himself.

Now he was slumped against the ropes that kept him on his feet, which had to be hell on his ribs if his breathing was to be believed.

As if the weight of the twin stares roused him, Mac lifted his head.

"I can't find him," he admitted quietly, obviously bewildered. "He's gotten good at hiding his mind, but not from me." The doctor shook his head slowly. "I can't find him. I can't warn him!"

"Easy, Mac," Jim soothed, glancing at the red-haired gunman. He had yet to move, gun still sighted on Sam and the Pastor deemed it safe to continue to talk. If he could draw fire from John and Sam, they stood a chance of making it out of this mess, of chasing after Cohen and Delanely.

"You're hurt," he added softly. "You know how that messes with your abilities."

Mac, dazed, nodded with a wince.

Sam moved in John's arms then. The hunter glanced away from his friend, looking down. His son appeared to be coming out of his trance.

John was holding him a way so as not to show his face to the gunman. He wasn't equipped with the armour needed to withstand the onslaught of terror his boy would have to deal with if he saw the weapon trained on him.

"Sammy?" he murmured, fear squeezing his heart. _The gun, the damn gun,_ its rhythm seemed to beat out.

"Dean," Sam demanded petulantly, just as John had feared.

The one word, the first word Sam had spoken since this frightening scenario began and the first word he'd ever said, actually, a little under a year ago, cut through the barn and into his father's heart.

"Dean's not here right now," John whispered, pressing his lips to the mop of hair he never seemed to get round to cutting.

"Dean!" Sam said insistently wriggling animatedly. "I want Dean, I want _Dean!_"

"I know, baby, I do too," John admitted, shifting the boy's weight as he squirmed, demanding to be put down so he could find his brother.

"No! Put down!"

"Sam!" John barked, knowing a tantrum was immediate. They weren't called the terrible two's for nothing, after all. "We'll get Dean later."

The boy's lower lip trembled and John knew they were in for it now. Sam took a long, deep breath and began to wail. All the men in the barn winced.

The kid a super set of lungs and his capacity for screaming knew no bounds. Dean was usually the one to calm him, even if his methods were somewhat unorthodox and often food based.

John would have killed for a cookie right then.

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Dean was groggy when he came round, and Caleb couldn't say he blamed him.

His own head felt as if someone had put a whammy on it. He almost expected his eyeballs to jump from their sockets with the force of the pounding headache.

Dean's nose was no longer bleeding, but he'd made no attempt to lift himself from the slumped position against Caleb and his eyes steadfastly remained shut. His face was too pale for Caleb's comfort and shivers racked his tiny frame almost continuously.

Caleb rubbed Dean's arms and back through the thick coats they wore and wished he'd had the forethought to find the kid a hat before they left the farm. Hadn't John told him something about more body heat leaving through the scalp than any other place?

"Deuce?" he asked softly. "You in there kiddo?"

"Mmmm," Dean agreed, cracking open his eyes. "Damien."

He became a little more alert as he searched the teen's face.

"Do you remember?"

His voice seemed bruised and that thought struck Caleb as ominous. He tilted Dean's head to check his throat, amused when a small hand batted his away.

Dean's eyes found his own again as the kid demanded once more if he remembered.

"Yeah, I remember."

Dean nodded, accepting the words at face value. "I'm hungry," he announced, obviously trying not to whine.

"I bet," Caleb agreed absently, lifting his head and opening his mind.

He felt it almost immediately.

The psychic was coming for them, had locked onto Caleb's mind with a tenacity that reminded the teen of Sam at his most stubborn. He wasn't going to let go and no matter where the boys went, he'd be able to find them. Caleb was worried he couldn't tell how close he was to them.

"Dean," he began, his brilliant back-up plan suddenly sounding not quite so brilliant, now he knew what went on in Dean's head.

"Yeah?"

"The hunters, the ones at the farm," he explained, licking his lips. He was very thirsty, he noticed now. "They're coming."

Dean tensed in his arms. "The bad men?"

"Yeah, the bad men. I'm sorry kiddo; I think they must have been able to latch onto me when I went to get you."

Dean's face fell. "Is it my fault?" he asked worriedly.

Caleb shook his head firmly. "No. Not at all. You couldn't help what happened."

"Is my dad with them?"

Caleb tried to smile, to be confident. "I don't think so, Deuce. But they might take us to him. He's probably somewhere warm, too."

"I want my dad, Damien."

"Soon," Caleb promised, hoping that was true.

Dean was silent a moment, and Caleb noticed his shivering had gone down a notch. Caleb hoped that it was simply because the shock and fear were wearing off, that he was warming up and not that his body was giving up trying to warm him.

Out of nowhere, Caleb felt his father's seeking mind.

"_Dad!" _he shouted, never so happy to connect to that well ordered, highly maintained mind. _"Where are you?"_

"_Stop shouting," _the plea came quietly, riding a wave of pain and Caleb hissed as he felt it. _"Are you alright, son?"_

"_They're coming for us!"_

"_I know, Caleb, I was hoping to warn you." _The words paused and Caleb sensed his father's worry. _"I couldn't find you."_

"_The psychic did, I had to go into Dean's mind, he passed out,"_ Caleb explained swiftly._ "Dad, there's something in his memories, something that shouldn't be there. It's … I think it's killing him."_

Caleb felt Mac pause.

"_That's not important right now, son," _he replied eventually. Although the words shook Caleb, he knew his father wasn't being callous. "_We'll get the answers when you and Dean are safe. For now, I want you to do as Delanely says. He's going to make an example of you to frighten Dean. They want those memories."_

"_The memories? Why? They're freaky, but I don't think-"_

Mac cut him off. _"Has Dean mentioned how he got them?"_

"_Not really. He said something about a Demon."_

"_What exactly did he say?"_ Mac demanded sharply. _"Think carefully, son."_

"_He told me that a demon gave him the memories, that it hurts to think of them and I think the pain's getting worse the longer he has them." _A sudden thought occurred to him. _"Is that psychic listening to us?"_

"_I'm blocking him. Caleb, I can't stay for much longer. Promise me you won't do anything rash. If Delanely asks Dean to show him the memories then and there, get him to do it. If he doesn't, he will take them forcefully." _Mac's words were crisp and slow. _"He's not too worried if Dean doesn't survive the process."_

"_Dad-"_

"_I have to go. Be careful."_

Silence reigned in Caleb's head for a moment, before the presence of the psychic reappeared. Taking a deep breath, Caleb sectioned a corner of his thoughts off, keeping the man out of the rest of his head.

He glanced down at Dean, whose eyes had slipped closed. If he'd noticed something strange about Caleb's sudden mental absence, he'd said nothing.

Caleb was torn. This whole thing was obviously frightening. Hell, it scared him, plain and simple, and he at least had been taught about the brotherhood and what they stood against. Dean, for all his aged soul and quiet acceptability, was a little boy and couldn't be expected not to react to the danger inherent in their situation.

Still, Caleb felt it would be worse not to tell him, not to warn him, despite his desire to protect him.

He gently woke him.

"Are the bad men here?" the boy asked sleepily, shifting to peek out of the shelter into the darkness. Night had settled completely while the boys had been sojourning in Dean's mind.

"Not yet," Caleb soothed. "Dean, listen to me. When they get here, I want you to give them what they want."

Dean looked scared. "What do they want with me?"

"Those memories you've been carting around, Deuce? They want 'em."

"What for?" Dean mumbled, cuddling closer and closing his eyes again. "They're not nice."

"Yeah, understatement," Caleb agreed, shifting Dean so he could move his arm, which seemed to have gone to sleep supporting the child.

Dean wriggled so he pressed against Caleb's chest, rather than his arm and the teen cuddled him tighter.

"Will that be a bad thing?" the younger boy asked finally.

Once more Caleb found himself being frankly honest. _Kid's got some sort of truth serum radiating off him,_ Caleb bitterly thought, even as he answered.

"Might be, kiddo. I don't know what good those memories will do them, but they've gone to a lot of trouble for them."

"You really think I should?"

Caleb looked down at the sleepy child, already halfway to dreamland, despite the cold, the fear and the hunger. Watching as he succumbed to sleep, Caleb's overactive imagination conjured up some truly horrible alternatives. He tightened his arms further around the Winchester child protectively and he lowered his head, forehead resting in Dean's hair.

"I really do."

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Mac lifted his head, a triumphant smile lighting his pain-lined face.

Jim breathed out, knowing the psychic had gotten through to Caleb. He glanced at John, who nodded almost imperceptibly, his movement unnoticed by the gunman, who was staring at a red faced, screaming Sam in open wonder.

John couldn't blame him. When Sammy really got going, he wasn't about to be de-railed lightly. John, hoping the man wasn't about to shoot his son to shut him up, offered him a 'Kids, what can you do?' shrug.

"He misses his brother," he explained simply.

Red stared.

Mac caught his eye, nodded to show he was back in full control. Delanely was no longer blocking the other psychic, too intent on finding Caleb. He had been telling the truth when he'd admitted to being poor at location.

John fought not to relax, not to tip off the hunter. As much as John hated the idea, he knew Sammy was providing the distraction the doctor needed in order to do something about the gunman.

He turned his head as Red crumpled slowly to the floor. Mac's expression hadn't given away anything and that chilled John, who'd thought he'd had a good read on his normally easygoing friend. Apparently, the hunter in him was called forth when his son was in jeopardy.

John returned his attention back to his own son. He was going purple.

"Okay, kiddo, time to breathe."

John blew lightly on Sam's lips and the kid shuddered to a stop in surprise, inhaling on reflex. The father smiled. That trick had worked on Dean when he'd discovered the power he held over his frantic parents if he held his breath.

The silence seemed to ring like a bell after the onslaught of noise. John used his sleeve to wipe the tears away as Sammy's colour slowly returned so somewhere near normal.

"Good boy," John praised as the baby hiccupped, obviously still distressed. "Shall we go find your brother?"

"Dean," Sam agreed, nodding a little and scrubbing at his eyes with balled fists.

John set him down with a little pat on the backside and a warning not to stray and began to untie Mac.

The man sagged into John's arms, who bent to support the shorter man's weight.

"Easy, Mac," he murmured. "Just sit down, already."

Sammy toddled over, once the man had collapsed onto the hard ground, leaning back against the beam that had held him upright. The baby raised a podgy little hand to play with the man's moustache, a recent addition to his favourite toys list.

Mac laughed weakly and pulled the boy into his lap, while Sam's father released Jim.

"I'm not going to be able to go with you," the psychic moaned, gritting his teeth against the pain. His eyes locked with those of John's. "You bring my son back safe, John."

Winchester, not a man of many words, simply nodded. The gesture seemed to convey 'you know I will' and 'I care too' and Mac was appeased, sighing.

"Do you know where he is?" Jim asked, having relieved Red of his gun, slinging it upon his shoulder. The Pastor had been an impressive shot back in the day and his friends suspected he still was.

"I can find him," Mac replied, closing his eyes to concentrate.

"Won't you need something of his?" John asked. That was how it usually worked, Mac took something the missing person had worn, or loved and it led him to the connection.

Mac opened his eyes.

"I'd find Caleb anywhere."

John believed him. He felt the same about his own boys.


	6. Chapter 6

**Once again many thanks to the mighty Supernoodle! Came home from holiday and responded to my urgent bleatings to help me with this chapter. What a trooper!**

Dean remained asleep while Caleb watched the night for the first signs of the hunters.

Mac had been in contact, very briefly, letting him know that the situation had now changed in their favour.

While relieved that John and the Pastor were coming for them, the teen had been concerned at the weakness sounding in Mac's 'voice'. The words had been faint, the touch lighter than before; the pain harder to mask.

Caleb had had no chance to reply to the man, to tell him of the memories that haunted Dean or the events that surrounded his discovering them. He hadn't been able to seek the comfort and security in sharing his discoveries.

Mac had gone the instant his message was delivered. Caleb had had no time to ask after his father's health.

That worried the boy incessantly. It was clear his Dad was running on his last reserves, he'd mentioned only John and Jim were coming, not himself. Mac was obviously out of this hunt.

The strange hunters were drawing ever closer and Caleb realised with alarm that he didn't know how far behind safety followed. How long would he have to stand between John's son and those who wanted what only the boy's mind could give them? Would they plunder their information from Dean here, leave them be once they recovered what they sought, or would they take Dean, leave Caleb's body growing cold behind them?

Caleb wondered if he should take Dean and run.

He wanted to run in the worst possible way, hide Dean somewhere in the woods where he, himself, had never been before. Lose them both and shield the younger boy to the best of his ability. It was tempting to give in to that yearning, now that they were on their way to being rescued, but the voice that sounded suspiciously like John Winchester demanded he hold his head high.

The night was also taking its toll on him; he could no longer rely on the coat to warm him and he hadn't eaten that day, except the bowl of soup Mac had brought him that lunchtime.

He was shivering intermittently, shaking the child in his arms with the force of the tremors and he knew it came from sitting on the frozen earth for too long, from the fact his jeans had never dried completely and now boasted a covering of frost, from the drain of adrenaline that left his body weakened and hungry.

He turned his attention from the opening of the rough shelter to his charge. His responsibility.

In all his fourteen years, Caleb had never been responsible for another life.

He'd never had so much as a pet before, and the weight of the expectations to keep Dean safe were crushing, hampering his ability to breathe. He didn't know how Mac dealt with the distraught parents who brought hats, socks, dolls and baseballs to him in a last effort to find their missing children. He couldn't comprehend how John made it through each day with the knowledge he was accountable for not only one but _two_ tiny boys.

Even while he had worked to bring Dean back from the darkness that threatened to steal him away, he had had his father with him, ready and able to take charge, to accept blame.

Caleb was panicking. He focused again on the small Winchester protected within his embrace.

Dean hadn't regained his prior colour, but his breathing was low and even, soothing in the quiet. He was okay, as far as Caleb knew; tired and cold and drained and hungry, but he wasn't hurt. Whatever had caused the memories to build up to such intensity that they had caused the child to pass out hadn't done any permanent damage, at least as far as Caleb could tell.

Dean sighed, waking, as if he felt the weight of the teens stare.

The teenager pushed all his fear deep down, fought to keep any of it from touching his expression, from reflecting in his eyes.

"Hey, Deuce," Caleb greeted softly.

Dean shivered. "Are they here yet Damien?"

"No," Caleb answered. "What do you say we meet those motherfu –" he bit the word off, remembering the lecture Pastor Jim had recently given him after hearing Sam repeat one of Caleb's favourite words back at him. "We meet them on our feet?"

Dean didn't reply, but he moved off of Caleb's lap, out of the warmth their bodies had fought so hard to generate.

Caleb followed him out of the crude shelter. Dean was puffing out the air in his lungs to watch it hang before him. He turned to Caleb, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully the way he had seen his father rub his, before sighing with a little shrug.

Catching the movement, Caleb glanced down at him.

"What's up, kiddo?"

"Do you think I should grow a beard like Dad sometimes does?"

"I wouldn't. Not for some years, anyway."

Dean accepted the teen's advice without another word and together they began to move back the way they had come.

Concentrating, Caleb noticed the other psychic was close. There was no hiding that fact now, even though the stranger, Delanely Mac had called him, had been able to do so before. He stopped Dean with a hand on his shoulder.

The small boy glanced up.

"They're not far. A minute out."

Dean bit his bottom lip. "Is that a long minute or a short minute?"

Caleb laughed softly. Whenever the boys asked how long something would take, or when they could have something, they were always told 'In a minute.' Apparently Dean had gotten wise that sometimes he'd wait longer than at other times.

The teen ruffled Dean's hair. "A short minute, Deuce. Your Dad and Pastor Jim are following."

"Daddy?" Dean chirped hopefully.

"Yeah, kid. John'll be here soon."

Soon. The thought echoed in Caleb's mind. The burden of responsibility would be lifted.

Soon.

But not yet.

Caleb knelt in front of the five year old, his eyes locked onto Dean's wide, hauntingly innocent gaze.

"Dean, listen to me," he said quickly, laying his hand back onto the small shoulder. "This man will want those memories. I don't know how far behind him your Dad is. If he wants those memories now, you go ahead and give him them. Let him carry them around, you hear me? No heroics. You don't need to go acting like your Dad, got it?"

"Yessir," Dean nodded and Caleb realised he'd been channelling John, unintentionally. It didn't matter, he decided. It'd gotten Dean to agree to his plan.

Dean continued to stare at Caleb and for a moment the teen was lost in his green eyes. Then he realised the kid was debating whether to speak his mind. He moved his hand to the back of Dean's neck and gave a gentle squeeze.

"Deuce?"

Dean's voice was quiet and uncertain. "Will you stay with me?"

Caleb felt as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs and the world span off kilter for a moment as he sought to regain his equilibrium.

"Let them try to stop me," he vowed, his voice deepening slightly at the emotion. He stood up and as he began to move once more, he felt a small, chilled hand slip into his own.

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John's mind was blank.

Anger, white hot and beating, had flooded his system and though he allowed it to fuel his muscles, he had forced it from his thoughts the only way he knew how.

Detachment.

If he was going to get his boy out of this, get both boys out of this, he knew he needed to be objective.

He found himself counting swiftly, silently, as each foot was lowered to the ground.

Besides him his old friend and quite often the voice that resonated reason in the back of John's mind, Jim Murphy, matched him powerful stride for powerful stride, borrowed rifle balanced carefully, competently in his arms.

John had made a tiny detour to his car - more importantly to the trunk of his car - to retrieve his own weapon.

_Just another hunt_, he'd promised himself, changing the rounds to ordinary shot. Salt would have little effect on the men who were after his first born.

_Liar._

The word had echoed mockingly, and it had been the last thought John had permitted himself.

The two men had picked up the trail easily enough, Cohen and Delanely hadn't made any effort to forestall detection. They hadn't counted on their captives freeing themselves.

_They hadn't counted on Sammy._

John allowed himself a grim smile before closing the door on his thoughts once more. It didn't matter that it was his child he was rescuing tonight, or that it was the child of his friend. It couldn't matter or it might make John miss the shot he would ordinarily have taken, hesitate when the situation called for sudden action.

He revised his no thoughts policy and let one repeat endlessly.

_Nothing happens tonight._

His footfalls sounded like the rhythm of a drum to his oversensitive ears; a warning beat accompanying the screams of the night owls, blending together into a lonely dirge for those who would dare to take his son.

_Nothing happens tonight._

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The other presence leaving his mind was Caleb's first clue.

Delanely no longer needed to hold on for he could see them.

Scanning the dark trees ahead, the teen caught the metallic glint shine off a gun. He moved to stand in front of Dean, protective instincts he hadn't realised existed roaring into life. The kid didn't let go of his hand, only gripped it tighter.

Within moments two men stepped into the boy's line of sight. Caleb appraised them naturally; a skill John hadn't needed to teach him.

Every nerve tingled in response to the sense of the threat the men presented.

The boys had stopped and together they waited for the two men to approach. One man, tall and dark in the minimal light, was armed, the gun Caleb had seen earlier held competently and confidently. The other man, smaller and somehow neater, carried no weapon but Caleb found he feared him more.

The men came to a stop once they'd closed the gap distancing the four. While the dark, scrubby man sized Caleb up, the other was smiling at Dean.

"If it isn't my favourite Winchester," he drawled.

Dean stared silently up at the man, partially hidden by Caleb's right leg. As the hand in his grip tightened once more, the teen risked taking his eyes off of the armed man to glance at the kid.

His eyes, luminous and wide in the poor light, struck Caleb as awfully innocent, his expression disarmingly vulnerable. He was surprised to find Dean's free hand was now fisted in the side of Caleb's denims.

"Little quiet, ain't he?" the bigger man observed, grinning wickedly.

"Dean's like a bird, Cohen," the psychic replied, his eyes not straying from the child. "Cage him and he falls silent."

"You think he'll sing for you, Warren?"

The man's smile widened. "I can guarantee it."

The psychic beckoned to Dean, who shook his head in a return of his silent communication. He stepped ever closer to Caleb, hiding his face in the teen's thigh.

"Dean," Delanely chided softly. "There's nothing to fear, child. I'm simply going to set you free."

Although Mac had cautioned Caleb to convince Dean to give the man what he wanted, something in his choice of words chilled the teen more than the night air. He thought he read an undercurrent of menace in the gently spoken words, thought he could detect the harm implied in the almost innocent sentence.

Intuitive as always, Dean had also picked up on the odd statement. While he probably didn't understand what Delanely meant, he had also used Caleb's body language as a guide and when the older boy tensed, Dean glanced up at him, seeking reassurance perhaps, or a hint as to what he was supposed to do now.

Caleb shook his head, staring at the two men.

"No," he whispered. He stepped backwards, pushing Dean back also with his leg. "No, I'm not going to let you hurt him."

"If he co-operates, it won't hurt at all," Delanely soothed, smiling once more at Dean. "Just give me access to what I want and it'll all be over."

Once more Dean looked to Caleb for guidance. Caleb's eyes were fixed on the other psychic's.

"It's killing him, Caleb," Delanely murmured.

The boy twitched, his own thoughts coming back to him.

The man continued softly. "Like a cancer spreading through his brain, destroying him slowly from the inside out, it's eating him alive."

He took a step forward.

"Dean's dying so slowly none of you can see it."

At this Caleb couldn't stop himself from searching Dean's pale face, seeking the truth to the man's words, trying to find the evidence to refute his claim. Dean stared back, his rapid breathing darting past slightly parted lips and his large eyes painfully aware.

"You're fine," Caleb growled, the words harsher than he had intended. "He's just trying to scare us - you."

Cohen had used the exchange to close the gap between the men and the children and as Caleb became aware of his presence, the large man reached for Dean.

Caleb blocked him with his left arm, Cohen's fingers closing around his wrist instead of Dean.

"Get out of my way, kid," he growled, sounding so eerily like John on a precarious hunt that Caleb almost obeyed until he caught the look in the hunter's eyes. Never had he seen John look so treacherous.

The snap was audible.

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John recognised the route he and the Pastor were taking.

He had used it often enough since he had first made contact with Jim Murphy, sent to the man by Missouri's recommendations. Daniel Elkins had shown John these paths just before Dean came back to him.

John had brought Dean along these same tracks once or twice, Caleb a few more times. Each time John had ventured into the woods it had been with one goal in mind. He wanted to learn and to teach the boys the area that surrounded the farm. He wanted to know every conceivable way through the trees in order to defend the farm and he wanted the children to be confident in their ability to hide and escape should they ever find themselves in this kind of predicament.

Mac and Jim, without the benefit of John's experience, laughed his behaviour off as typical Marine 'I need to know _everything_' macho-ism, but Elkins had approved and now John was going to enjoy rubbing their faces in it when he returned out of this mess, Dean and Caleb in tow.

He was pleased and relieved to find the boys had stuck to the familiar, just as John would have instructed. They may lose their pursuers, but not themselves.

It was one of the first lessons John had drilled into the older boy's head, one he had started to train his young son in as soon as he deemed him ready. It was the first lesson he himself had learnt as a painfully raw recruit.

_Stick to what you know, you'll have an advantage over those who follow you. Learn your terrain better than the other guy._

John had been disappointed that the only thing he learnt that first week how to take a stroll in the country. Like Caleb after him, he had wanted to get straight into the weapon's training, the hardcore fighting, the grit-in-your-eyes-hunger-in-your-belly survival stories; success due more to instincts and sheer ballsy luck rather than any tactical superiority.

And like his mentor before him, he hadn't backed down in the face of disgruntled disappointment and continued to hammer his argument home.

_Never go into something unprepared. Let the enemy make that mistake. Use your head and your knowledge and you'll come out on the other side. The poor bastards who didn't learn that never got to apologise to their parents for making a poor choice._

John had edited the gruff words slightly to make it work with Caleb and Dean respectively, but the sentiment had remained the same. He had even included his own accounts of times that valuable bit of advice had saved his life, romancing it for starry-eyed boys and ensuring they would heed him.

John had felt grateful many times to his first commanding officer for taking a young, scared boy under his wing and protecting him the only way he knew how, by arming him with skills and knowledge, but never had he felt that gratitude more so than now.

Thanks to the man's insight and colourful observations, John had an advantage.

He had a good starting point, a sound direction to head in and the advantage of knowing the terrain. John, in short, had many cards in his hand and however he laid them out, he was confident he would end the game with a win.

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The break seemed to echo through the tight space, bouncing off the trees.

Caleb was too surprised to cry out, he simply staggered back, again pushing Dean along with his leg, his arm released by Cohen. Once free of the gripping constraint, the wave of pain rolled through him.

Cohen reached for the teen once more, surprised when an unexpected barrier of four foot blond stopped him.

"Don't hurt him!"

Dean stood between the two, careful to place himself closer to Caleb. He turned his gaze on Delanely.

"Take them. I don't want them anymore."

Delanely smiled slowly.

"It's not that easy Dean. You're going to have to carry them for just a little while longer."

"I don't understand," Caleb ground out between clenched teeth, holding his injured wrist against his chest, free hand reaching for Dean's shoulder. "You said you were going to take the memories."

"Did I?" Delanely asked mildly. "I assure you, I don't want them in my mind any more than Dean does."

Caleb found his was growling in annoyance, low in his chest.

Delanely, calm and indifferent, kept eye contact with the teen. "If you remember correctly, our plan has always been to take the boy with us."

Caleb shook his head, felt Dean press into him. "Not going to happen."

"Are you going to stop us?" Cohen taunted, face split with a wide grin. "I'm up for you trying, kid."

Caleb looked back to Delanely.

"Take me too," he said desperately. "He'll behave for me. He won't be any trouble. I won't be trouble."

Delanely's eyes had once more found Deans. His voice, still soft, was chilling.

"He'll behave for me, too."

Caleb shut his eyes against the sound of Cohen's laughter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Once again, this chapter wouldn't exist without the support of Supernoodle and the encouragement of Ridley. Thanks so much!**

**Also, thanks to those who've left an anonymous review. Sorry I can't thank you one by one, hope this suffices. **

Caleb nodded slowly.

"Okay," he breathed. "Alright, but c'mon. You'll need me."

Cohen shook his head, still smiling. "Why would we need you?"

Caleb shot him an angry glare. "You want to carry him back to your wheels? He's tired and cold; he's not going to be able to keep up with you. You want to get away as fast as you can, I don't need to read your mind to know that. I can carry him, at least as far as the farm."

"He'll walk," Cohen predicted coldly, baring his teeth at the younger child.

Dean, his back already flush with Caleb's leg, let out a little whimper as he attempted to inch further away from the man, his earlier bravado fleeing at the thought of leaving Caleb behind.

Still, he continued to guard the older boy as much as he could with his small body.

"You'd be a hindrance," Delanely smiled. His voice was soft, mocking, but the unspoken meaning was clear to the teenager. "Nothing more."

"You're right, though," Cohen agreed. "We've wasted enough time."

Caleb's attention returned to the other man in time to watch as he reversed his rifle and brought the butt up to crack against the side of the teens' head. The young psychic attempted to duck the strike, but couldn't avoid it entirely.

Caleb sank to his knees, vision swimming but not fading. In an instant Dean was by his side, small hands shaking his shoulder in an effort to get the older boy to respond and reaching out to touch the bruise which was blossoming swiftly.

"Deuce," the teenager moaned softly, jerking his head away with a wince. "Quit it."

A shadow loomed and Dean spun around as Cohen, rifle raised to deliver a second blow, approached again.

"Don't!" he yelled, every second of fright and fear he had felt since the hunters had been detected screaming out of him in one mighty shout. He spread his hands and pushed futilely against one of the man's legs with all his remaining strength.

Cohen growled low in his throat, lifting the gun's end towards the younger boy this time, trying to shake him off.

"Cohen," Delanely chided playfully.

"You said I couldn't kill him, no-one said I couldn't shut him up," the dark haired man complained.

"Deuce," Caleb murmured again, reaching out to turn the child in his direction once more. He noticed that tears trickled slowly down the boy's cheeks.

_Poor kid, gotta be exhausted,_ he thought, strangely detached from the thought of his own imminent demise. Not for a second did he think these strange hunters would leave him alive to follow them.

Cohen turned to Delanely with a snarl.

"Let's _go_, already."

Delanely, just as calm and collected as ever, simply smiled yet again.

"Come, now, Brian. Surely we can allow the boys to say goodbye? We're not barbarians, after all."

Without waiting for Cohen's reply Caleb pulled Dean closer, the motion awkward with one arm. He hissed slightly as the movement jarred his broken wrist, but smiled reassuringly at the younger child as he tried to settle him. Dean's worried eyes searched his face, his body once more stiff and uneasy and Caleb allowed his forehead to rest on Dean's.

"It's alright," he breathed and Dean shook his head slowly.

"It's not, Damien," he whispered, choking on a sob.

Caleb felt his own chest tighten. Dean was on his last reserves, this long, dreadful night taking its toll and pushing him to the end of his endurance.

Leaning back, looking into eyes the colour of the forest, Caleb could see the night's terrors play within their shadows.

He made his decision. His back-up plan had now become his only plan.

"Hey," he murmured soothingly. "Just close your eyes."

Little hands gripped his jacket front, pulling him closer to the five year old. Another sob was swallowed by the unforgiving night. Caleb took a slow breath.

"Deuce," he tried again. "I want you to close your eyes."

On the margin of his world Caleb could hear Cohen shifting impatiently and he steeled himself, strengthened his resolve. He would have to act quickly if he was going to pull it off. He laid his cheek against Deans.

"Close your eyes, Dean," he repeated gently.

This time Dean did so and Caleb pushed with his mind, harder and with more at stake than ever before.

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Caleb spun in the dark; suspended and disorientated, searching for Dean frantically. It wouldn't take Delanely long to work out what was happening and Cohen might find it simpler to end the trouble with a single shot. The thought made him double his efforts.

"Dean!" he shouted. "Where are you?"

His feet touched ground instantly, so sudden it threatened to send him tumbling off balance.

"Caleb?"

Righting himself, the teen recognised Dean standing beside him, looking lost and confused. Caleb grabbed his hand, moving off swiftly, urgently, noticing Dean's reluctance but not slowing.

"Haul ass, kiddo," he instructed, speeding up. "Got a lot of ground to cover."

Dean stumbled over his own feet, attempting to keep up.

"Where are we?"

"Don't you recognise your own mind, short stuff?"

"Why are we _here_?" Dean asked plaintively.

"Gotta find that damn closet," Caleb replied, breaking into a jog, dragging the five year old behind him. He swung his head from left to right, trying to see past the inky blackness, but Dean stopped short, causing Caleb to almost trip, having not expected the extra weight on his arm.

"What the hell, man?"

Caleb tugged Dean forward again, but the child stubbornly dug his heels in.

"Dean, what are you doing? Delanely's gonna follow us - he could find us at any moment!"

Dean remained silent, his small face serious as he regarded the teen in a way that reminded him of John.

It was an almost inscrutable expression and coming from his mentor, Caleb never knew if it was born out of exasperation, curiosity or indifference. It was almost as if John were weighing up every decision and movement Caleb made, scoring them out of ten and adding up the results.

The teen had never mustered up the courage to ask if he had made the grade.

Coming from Dean, Caleb was just as lost. Dean had learnt at the feet of the master of 'closed off' and despite his tender age he was already an adept pupil. It was his defence; his shield against a world he didn't understand, a world that wouldn't accept him.

The thought scared Caleb a little.

Summoning the energy needed from deep inside, Caleb shot Dean a cocky, smug grin; his own armour. Dean didn't respond.

Sighing, Caleb ran his free hand through his hair, before kneeling in front of the smaller boy.

"Deuce," he began, resting his hand behind the child's neck. "We have to find that closet."

Dean raised his hand and fingered the sleeve of Caleb's coat.

"Your arm's not sore here," he commented softly.

"No, not here," Caleb agreed. "Dean –"

"Why did we come back?"

"I told you, to find –"

"You said I shouldn't be in here."

"It's just for a little while, kiddo. I'll come get you before you know it."

"But _why_?"

Caleb watched as Dean continued to fiddle absently with the teen's sleeve.

"I'm going to hide you."

"And you, too," Dean smiled, looking up to catch the older boy's eyes.

Caleb smiled back sadly. "Nope, not me. Just you. _I_ have to keep Delanely off our backs."

Dean glanced around at the dark hollow of his mind.

"You're going to leave me?"

"Dean …" Caleb sighed.

"I don't want you to go."

"Hey, I'm coming back. It'll be alright."

At first it looked as if Dean was going to speak but instead he put his hand to his head, moaning softly in a frightening repeat of the actions that had preceeded his earlier passing out.

Caleb wondered if he really was doing the right thing.

"Deuce?"

"I'm okay," he replied, squinting in obvious pain before looking over Caleb's shoulder.

"What is it?" the teen asked, glancing around. All he could see was the ever consuming midnight.

"I think that man's here too."

Caleb's gut clenched tight. "Right, so we gotta find that door, Dean. Got to get you inside."

Dean swallowed. "Will he be able to open the door?"

"No," Caleb assured him. "I'm going to lock it and hide the key."

Dean looked positively terrified at the prospect.

"That way, I'll be the only one who can find you," Caleb soothed. "He'll have to take me too. What's John going to say if I let you out of my sight, huh?"

Dean bit his lip.

Caleb sighed softly, squeezing the back of the little boy's neck in a gesture of comfort.

"It's the only way I can think of to keep you safe," he admitted.

The boys locked gazes for a moment.

Breaking the connection, Dean looked to his right and after a second Caleb followed.

The closet door had appeared.

Standing, Caleb opened it easily. Dean moved close to his side, peering in apprehensively.

"It'll be alright," Caleb encouraged, trying to swallow the lump that threatened to choke him.

Dean took a hesitant step forward, before turning to face the older boy again.

"How will I know it's you?"

"You will. You'll know me."

"You should use a password."

Caleb nodded, glancing behind him, expecting to see Delanely heading towards them.

"Alright, you pick it."

Dean considered his options carefully. His Dad had always made him choose something only he and Dean would know; something that couldn't be guessed at.

"Deuce," he decided. "You have to call me Deuce."

"I can do that," Caleb agreed readily. He offered the little boy an encouraging smile as Dean backed up, before shutting the door. He turned the lock, pocketing the key.

Hearing the barrels click home, Dean panicked.

"Caleb?!" he called, small fingers pushing through the slats.

The teen touched his fingertips to them.

"It'll be okay, Deuce. I'll come back for you, I'll come find you." Caleb didn't notice the tears that rolled down his own face, concentrating instead on keeping his voice level and confident. "You need to go sit down, Dean. Quietly. Don't let anything know you're here."

"You'll come back?" Dean asked and the teen could hear the breathless quality to his voice.

"I promise," he croaked.

Dean withdrew his fingers, stepping back and the closet faded. Turning around and leaning his back against the blank wall that had replaced it, Caleb drew a shaky breath, just as Delanely stepped into his sight.

"No!" the man exclaimed. "What have you done with him!"

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Both psychics re-entered the world at the same time. Caleb, supporting Dean against his own body, lifted defiant eyes to the slim man.

For the first time since he had met him, Delanely looked shaken.

"Shit!" he swore angrily, striding away from Caleb, then abruptly stalking back, jabbing a finger in teen's direction. "That was _not_ a clever move!"

Caleb, adjusting his grip on Dean's limp body, thought it wise not to reply that he personally thought it was more than clever.

He considered it was bordering on sheer genius, actually.

"What happened?" Cohen demanded, eyes darting between the boy's and the psychic.

"I won't be able to access Dean's mind," Delanely spat. "Not until he lets him out."

"What?"

"Caleb's coming with us. Let's go."

Cohen glared at the teen menacingly, leaning in closer and Caleb caught a whiff of his rancid breath as he pointed a meaty finger at him.

"Once Warren figures a way out of this, I'm putting a bullet in your brain," he promised. "I can't kill the kid, but I got nothing stopping me from terminating your club membership."

Caleb, confidence buoyed by the fact his plan had worked, that Dean was safe for the moment, couldn't stop the smirk that spread across his lips.

"Was that a metaphor? Cohen, you surprise me, you really do. I underestimated you, man."

Cohen snarled. "Pick the kid up and get walking. Remember, I got my sights trained on your skinny back."

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John straitened from his inspection of the ground and met Jim's eyes.

"The boys met with them. I can see all four sets of prints, but only three lead away. They're going in the same direction."

The Pastor raised his eyebrows, seeking more information.

John complied. "They're doubling back. Dean's being carried; his tracks end abruptly right next to Caleb's and X-ray two's. No sign of -" his voice stopped, grinding to a halt and Jim saw him breathe heavily before continuing. "X-ray one's leading."

"They're heading back to the farm," the Pastor agreed. "They're smart enough to use a different route."

John was silent a moment, studying the tracks once more. "They've angled slightly away from the farm."

"The road?" Jim guessed. "Going back to their vehicle?"

John nodded. "It's what I would do."

Jim took one last look at the depressed snow. "There's a lot of prints," he observed. "They were here for some time, must have been talking."

John smiled humourlessly. "Caleb was doing what he does best. Wasting time."

Without another word the two hunters moved off, loping easily through the shadows.

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Caleb, on the pretext of stumbling, dragged the toe of his sneaker in the snow.

Both the men had been going very carefully through the forest, and Caleb wanted to leave some sign of their passing for John and the Pastor.

Behind him Cohen sneered at Caleb's apparent clumsiness. Delanely, who otherwise might have picked up on Caleb's true intent, turned from his position in front to glance distractedly at them before turning once more with a frown. His mind, Caleb had noticed, was elsewhere.

Dean's head rested on Caleb's shoulder and the teen shifted him higher up once more, since he had slipped slightly during Caleb's 'stumble'.

Caleb wished absently he could switch him to his other arm. The kid may not have been big, but he was a dead weight after a while of trekking though the snow on an empty stomach.

His injured arm, however, felt tight and numb with pain. His head pounded in a rhythm that he couldn't quite keep up with, it seemed to change each time he thought he had the pattern worked out.

"You didn't mean to bury him that far, did you?"

Caleb jerked at Delanely's unexpected words.

"Dean. You didn't think he'd be hidden so well."

Caleb rallied quickly.

"I knew what I was doing," he shot back defensively.

Delanely chuckled but said no more.

The fourteen year old glanced worriedly at Dean, the psychic's words eating at him, swift and hot, like acid burning through his skin.

The boy looked as if he was fast asleep, his expression serene.

But Caleb hadn't realised he'd leave Dean like this; had thought Dean would have returned with them, locked inside himself but fully functioning.

Caleb had expected the Dean Winchester he had first met last year, silent and unresponsive but _there_.

Panic fluttered in the teens' chest. Had he unwittingly put Dean into a coma of some sort? Would he be able to find Dean again?

Caleb lent his cheek momentarily against the child's head, allowing his mind to drift. He felt Delanely's thoughts ahead of him, scanning the area intently. Although it didn't appear the psychic noticed him, Caleb was too drained to continue and broke the connection. He didn't need to uselessly expend energy he didn't have.

They trudged on several more paces until Delanely stopped, stiffened.

"Cohen," he warned. "They've escaped."

The big man shoved Caleb roughly in the back, bringing him up level with Delanely.

"Can you locate them? Use that psychic thingy?"

"There's no psychic energy for me to use," Delanely replied, an edge of exasperation creeping into his tone. "The Doctor's keeping awfully quiet. It was a stroke of luck I picked up on what I did."

"You're telling me that there are three men somewhere in these woods and you don't know where they'll turn up?" Cohen hissed.

Delanely turned his half smile onto his partner. "Afraid, Brian?"

"Cautious, Warren."

"Calm yourself, you need only fear for two. It would appear Ames's was unable to accompany his friends."

Cohen grunted, shoving Caleb again.

"Keep moving," he instructed the teen.

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John's detachment was crumbling, folding like a bad hand of cards.

With every passing minute he was growing more concerned. The anger was still there, beating strong beneath the surface, but fear had encroached, moving stealthily like a shadow across the ground, creeping until it covered all, stealing warmth and leaving cold.

_They have my boy._

The hunter was slowly giving way to the frightened parent.

_My son is in the hands of men who will hurt him to get what they want._

Unconsciously, John sped up.

"John?" Jim barely registered beside him.

_They want to hurt my baby._

John hadn't realised he had spoken his last thoughts until the Pastor replied.

"They can't do anything just now, John."

_They won't get the chance,_ the hunter vowed silently.

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Caleb dared to allow hope to build.

Both Cohen and Delanely were tense, silent. They kept their eyes moving continuously through the trees, alert for signs of their pursuers.

Without warning, Cohen placed his large hand against Caleb's back and pushed, hard. The teen staggered forward, drawing level with Delanely until a second shove sent him ahead.

"This isn't getting us anywhere," the unshaven man muttered behind him.

"What do you suggest?" his partner asked.

"Ambush 'em," Cohen replied without hesitation.

Delanely was quiet a moment in thought.

"We keep moving," he decided finally.

"I was put on this mission for a reason, Warren," Cohen argued, taking care to keep his voice low. "You deal with the psychics and I deal with the hunters. We're stopping."

There was another tense pause while Delanely apparently mulled it over once more.

"If you insist," he relented graciously. "Would they have overtaken us?"

Cohen shook his head.

"Unlikely," he grunted, remaining silent before expanding. "No point, they'd have the advantage of surprise by sticking behind us."

He grabbed Caleb's shoulder, using the handy grip to steer him away from the direction they had been travelling in. He shoved him roughly behind a cluster of the coarse scrubs that littered the forest.

Cohen glanced at Delanely.

"You think you can stop the kid warning 'em?"

"Of course," the psychic replied indifferently.

Cradling Dean close to him and watching as Cohen carefully chose his position, Caleb crouched beside Delanely, hoping John and the Pastor would spot the trap for what it was.


	8. Chapter 8

**Whew! Done at last!**

**I'm sorry it's taken such a long time to get this last chapter up, but I just couldn't get it right. Supernoodle deserves a medal (or a weeks worth of subway sandwiches) for putting up with my pitiful attempts at this and for making it better. She totally rocks the Kasbah!**

**Thanks one last time to Ridley for allowing me to play in the world of the Brotherhood. It was fun!**

"_One man in a thousand, Solomon says,_

_Will stick closer than a brother._

_His wrong's your wrong, and his right's your right,_

_In season or out of season._

_For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim_

_With you in any water."_

- Kipling

Later, John would discount it as a tired mind playing up, coupled with years of intense training, but for those few moments of his life, he felt as if he knew the balance had shifted.

It wasn't something he could put his finger on; a sharper smell to the air, a taste in his mouth, he couldn't tell. Perhaps even a good old fashioned tingle down his spine.

Whatever is was, his movements slowed and as in any good partnership, his companion read the signals and matched him, noting his extra vigilance.

Glancing across at the Pastor, he saw the question in the man's eyes. Reading the minimal tracks, praying Caleb had left him another clue; John scanned the area for an answer to give Jim. Admitting he had the willies wasn't going to do his reputation any good.

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Caleb could feel the walls Delanely had built around him. He knew he wasn't strong enough or experienced enough to break through them, but that didn't stop him from throwing himself at them time and again, testing the foundations for cracks, searching for a gap to escape through. Delanely didn't appear to find his random thoughts very straining, but Caleb kept at it, hitting him with no pattern, no plan.

Simply keeping up the charade.

Caleb had been disappointed when John had told him, during one of their first hunts together, that sometimes you have to bow to the inevitable and concede defeat. Caleb hadn't thought John Winchester a man who knew the taste of defeat in battle, not when he'd seen him personally bull-doze his way out of what looked like a sound beating by an angry poltergeist.

If he hadn't before, John had taken on comic-book super-hero proportions that night, throwing off the furniture that pinned him with a roar and diving for his gun, blasting both rounds at the spirit who had shrieked into nothingness long enough for a salt'n'burn, Winchester style, into the next world.

The man was a freaking machine, a standard for the never-say-dies to aspire to. Which was why Caleb had been so disenchanted on the way home as John had offered up that morsel.

Seeing the kid frown, John had smiled that soft, dangerous smile and amended. _For a while, at least, _he'd said, whisper quiet and Caleb had waited eagerly for more.

_Lull your capturer into a false sense of security, do what he expects you to do for long enough and he'll be powerless when your real attack comes._

Caleb had never had to put that theory into practice, but he was good at thinking on his feet and he knew exactly what game he was playing. It felt a little like cat and mouse. And like the cat, Caleb could be very patient when he wanted something.

From where he was hidden, Caleb had a clear view of the route he and the men had taken. He watched, waiting for John or the Pastor to make an appearance and almost sighed in relief when he saw a snatch of movement break the monotony of the silent woods. He threw his mind against Delanely's, and used the distraction instantly. Recoiling from his latest attempt to break through the other psychics enclosing walls, Caleb took a deep breath. Delanely turned to him just as the teenager bellowed.

"Trap!"

His shout rattled off the trees, ringing in the silence that followed.

Delanely growled softly. "You're pushing it, Caleb," he warned, as a shot rang out, making Caleb jump. He wondered absently if he'd ever get as used to the noise as John appeared to be.

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"Trap!"

The hunters wasted no time in getting themselves behind a tree each for cover. They shared a glance across the distance separating them before John moved left and Jim right. Two targets would be harder to shoot, especially coming from different angles. Within moments of leaving the relative safety their trees provided, a shot was fired, to John's grim satisfaction, allowing him to know the direction of his opponent immediately.

John barely noticed the sting as a bullet tore a shallow scratch across his upper arm and embedded itself in a tree behind him, the hot wash of blood that followed accenting just how cold the rest of his body felt, but that was as far as he allowed recognition of the wound to go.

Instead, he concentrated on tracing the sound. Whoever the shooter had been had obviously tried not to reveal his location until the last possible second, but now John followed the sound back to its source.

Another shot sounded in the dense woods, this time coming from the direction John had seen Jim take. Switching targets easily, John left the Pastor to deal with the gunman, while he focused on Caleb's shout instead.

Since his cry, nothing more had been heard, and certainly nothing had moved, so John knew the kid was still in the same spot, most likely being guarded by the psychic.

Psychics held no fear for John, he was a man with an iron will and by Mac's own admission, his mental walls were solid. If anyone wanted to get into John's head without permission, they were going to be sorely disappointed.

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Warren Delanely was worried. He could feel the Pastor out in the forest, could hear the loud, low sounds of the guns, but for some reason John Winchester was flying under the radar. He peered anxiously through the gloom.

John had circled back, using Caleb's shout as a last known location and guide. For a big man, John could move as silent as a spirit when he chose, and he had a lot to motivate him just now.

He soon found himself looking at the back of the psychic's head. Holding his breath, John Winchester crept towards his prey, lifting his rifle in preparation.

Delanely turned at the last moment. Before he could take a breath to shout out, bright light flared without warning as a sharp blow ignited pain through his temple and he lost consciousness.

Cohen was having his own problems. Every time he managed to get a shot off, Jim was ready with his own fire, dogging his movements and shutting down hopes of escape.

Cohen, realising he wasn't going to shake the Pastor, doubled back towards the psychic and the children. Their only hope was to use the boys as hostages now, to somehow barter their way out of the situation. He frowned seeing Delanely laid low by a powerful cuff to the head, courtesy of Winchester's rifle butt, but once the group were close and in clear sight, Cohen raised his gun. One last shot rang through the forest.

Caleb let out a startled shout as the body landed beside him. Although it wasn't the first he had seen, it was the first dead body since his grandmother had died and now, as it had then, strong memories of his parents' deaths rose in his mind.

Panting, the boy found himself unable to tear his eyes from the gruesome sight, Cohen's face mercifully hidden in the snow. John dropped down next to him.

"Caleb! Look at me!" John demanded. He gripped the boy by the shoulders. "Look at me!"

Slowly the teen brought his frozen gaze from the corpse to John. He gripped Dean tighter still. "John?"

"Alright kid, take it easy."

John reached to take his son from Caleb, but the older boy simply blinked up at him. Finally getting a close look at Dean, John's heart rate jumped. "Dean!"

Flinching at John's shout, Caleb scrambled back, taking Dean with him.

"What's wrong with him?"

"N-nothing!" Caleb whispered. "He's okay, John, he's okay."

Jim, materialising out of the darkness, quickly assessed the situation. "Let's get the boys back to the farm," he suggested quietly, but firmly. "They've been out in the cold for too long already."

John once more reached to take his son from Caleb, frightened by the limpness of his child's body and the slowness of his breath, but the kid glanced hopefully at Jim.

The Pastor understood the look his Caleb's eyes. "John, why don't you take custody of Delanely? Come on, son."

This last was said to Caleb, who unfolded himself from the ground, averting his eyes from the body cooling beside him and shifting his precious burden in his awkward, one-armed grip. Dean's head lolled alarmingly and John tenderly lifted it back to the teens shoulder.

"What happened?" he asked quietly meeting and holding Caleb's gaze.

"I had to do it," the boy told him. "Delanely would have hurt him. I had to lock his mind away."

The words terrified the hunter, but he fought not to let it show. Instead, he nodded, telling Caleb he understood. At least, as much as he ever could understand the world of the psychic.

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Mac straightened from inspecting Dean, still held tight by Caleb. The teens arm had been hastily splintered and bandaged, Caleb protesting the whole time that Mac should see to Dean instead but not once letting go of the boy. The doctor had been mostly silent throughout.

"Well?" John insisted.

Mac ran his fingers down his moustache thoughtfully. "The blackouts and bleeding are worrying," he admitted finally. "While I don't believe he's in immediate danger, those memories are only going to cause more problems."

"Then wake him up."

Jim had to feel sorry for his friend. John had shown remarkable restraint so far, but his patience was wearing thin, as the rough handling of the two captives in the barn had testified.

"I can't," Mac replied, turning to his own son. "Only Caleb can."

The teen nodded. "That's why Delanely couldn't get to him. He needed to keep me around."

"Then get going," John ground out.

Mac touched Caleb's shoulder. "Hold on a moment, son. First, tell me about these memories."

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Caleb felt like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

He had been given specific instructions by Mac on how to erase the memories Dean carried with him and while that was daunting in itself, the expectant, anxious look on John's face was worse. Sometimes it was easy to forget the man was a father as well as a hunter and the Triad's Knight.

Caleb ignored the dark recesses of Dean's mind and concentrated on what that little door had looked like.

After several minutes of careful conjuring, Caleb found what he was looking for. He could see the door ahead of him.

Taking a step towards it, the door scooted back, so fast that Caleb had to break into a run to keep it in sight. Despite his best efforts, the door disappeared into the distance, and exhausted, Caleb returned back to the world of the hunters.

"Well?" John demanded, glancing from Dean to Caleb and back again.

The teen shook his head. "I can't reach the door," he panted.

"Caleb I swear, if you don't bring my son back this instant, I will end you!"

"John!" Mac snapped. "You're not helping, he's exhausted." He turned to his son. "Try again, Caleb. Remember what we talked about?"

"Dad?" the teen whimpered. "I don't think I can do it."

John snarled. "You'd better!"

Mac shot the hunter another angry glare, before turning back to his son.

"You can, Caleb, you put him there without any help. You're stronger than you think."

Caleb swallowed heavily; glancing at Dean cradled in his embrace and took a deep breath, trying to control his emotions and his mind.

He nodded decisively and closed his eyes, allowing his thoughts to drift until they latched onto Dean's sleeping mind.

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As always, the deepest part of black flooded his wide eyes.

Caleb held his breath, waiting for some sign of Dean's presence, but none came. The teen focused on the image of the boy in his head, the door he had hidden him behind and once more it appeared in the distance.

Mustering up all his self-control, Caleb fought not to race towards it, but to allow it come to him. He waited, as patiently and calmly as he could, he waited for Dean to see him.

Once the door was close enough to touch, Caleb hesitantly rested his fingertips against it. He could feel Dean behind it, sense his presence.

"Dean? I'm opening the door, you can come out now."

He pulled the key from his pocket and fitted it into the lock, before remembering Dean's safe word. "Deuce, its okay, it's me."

He swung the door open, peering inside. At first, there was nothing within the closet and Caleb, worried, stepped inside. "Dean? Where are you?"

Dean appeared out of the dark, barrelling into Caleb, wrapping his arms around the teen tightly, his whole body trembling.

Caleb stroked the child's hair, surprised at the greeting, trying to make shushing noises. "Hey, it's alright, Deuce," he soothed. "I'm here, I'm here now. You okay?"

Dean nodded against him and Caleb rested a hand upon the top of his head. "I need you to trust me, kid," he began, trying to remember all Mac had told him. "I'm gonna get rid of the memories, okay?"

"Will it hurt?" Dean asked.

"No," Caleb promised. "It won't hurt anymore."

He focused on Dean's mind, finding where he kept the memories that weren't his own. Although it was purely symbolic, he felt a strange satisfaction as he pushed those memories; those foreign thoughts that couldn't ever have belonged to Dean, into the closet the child had created as a means to distance himself from them. Mac had told him he wasn't really sealing them behind a door, but the metaphor had been Dean's and it was important that the little boy believed them gone as much as it was important for Caleb to remove them.

He was, Mac had said, erasing them from Dean, and the only way Caleb could think about doing that, was to destroy them and the closet had seemed the ideal place.

Banishing the small room for the last time, as Caleb brought them home he happened to glance into the closet once more.

Yellow eyes glittered back at him.

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Both boys opened their eyes at the same time, seeking and finding each other.

"Hey," Caleb greeted the younger boy gently. "Welcome back."

"What happened?" the child murmured. Suddenly his eyes widened. "Is he gone?"

Caleb frowned. "Gone?"

"The man … he followed me …" the small boy shut his eyes.

"Delanely?" Caleb guessed. "He's gone, Deuce."

"No, not him," Dean sighed, his eyes remaining closed as he turned his face into Caleb. "M'tired," he mumbled.

John reached for him, gently prying his son from the other boy's arms. "Dean?"

The five year old protested sleepily, opening his eyes when John called his name again.

"Hey, buddy, you with us?"

Dean woke properly once more, as Caleb stepped away. He looked around frantically, whimpering slightly.

John glanced worriedly at Mac, before turning his attention back to his boy. "Ace? What's wrong?"

Dean stared into the face of his father, gasped in fright and fought to free himself. John, surprised and anxious not to hurt him, let him go, a pang of something that felt like longing and envy shooting through his chest as Dean leapt towards Caleb, arms outstretched.

Caleb caught his headlong flight, allowing Dean to press close.

"Hey," he murmured, aware of the adults watching intensely, but turning his focus on Dean. "What's all this?"

The teen struggled to hear the boys words, buried as they were in his leg. "I thought you'd forgotten me."

Ignoring the slight vertigo and the protests of his tired, aching body, Caleb lent down to speak to Dean. "Never."

Dean lifted his face. "Are they bad men?"

Surprised, Caleb glanced at his dad before answering. "No, Dean. They're family." He gestured towards John. "Your dad, remember?"

"I don't remember," Dean whispered.

Caleb shot a worried look at Mac once more, fearing he had erased more than the Demon's memories.

"You're a little confused, Dean," the doctor said soothingly. "It'll come."

John couldn't contain himself any longer. He knelt on the floor, to be closer to Dean's height. "Dean? Don't you know me?"

Dean turned to face him, contemplating him for a moment, before nodding slowly. "Daddy?"

John reached towards Dean, taking hold of the front of his jacket and pulling the boy roughly towards him. Dean stumbled, his small fingers gripping his father's hands in an effort to steady himself.

"Why didn't you tell me?" the man demanded "Dean! Why didn't you tell me?" Dean stared at his father, mutely begging him to understand. "Answer me, Dean!"

From where he stood, Caleb could see Dean's eyes slowly fill with tears. They did nothing to dull the dark green depths, only adding to the intensity of his pleading gaze.

The teen strode forward, resting a firm hand on the man's shoulder.

"John," he murmured softly. "There was no way he could."

John blinked like a man slowly awakening and glanced from Caleb back to his child. One lone tear had dared to break past Dean's defences to roll slowly down his cheek.

With a sigh of gentle regret, John cupped the side of his son's head with his large hand, his thumb wiping the droplet away.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he whispered brokenly.

Caleb's heart wrenched when Dean smiled softly, reaching out to pat his father reassuringly on the shoulder.

"Its okay, Dad."

Caleb, his head pounding and his body aching, stepped away trying to keep steady and ignoring the little black spots that swam in his vision.

Mac must have been watching him closely, he frowned as Caleb swayed.

"Son?"

"S'okay dad, just a bit … dizzy."

John stood, reaching out to steady the teen as his knees buckled and his body fell into the hunters supporting arms. As Caleb's world darkened, he thought he heard Dean's frightened shout.

"Caleb!"

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Long, dark lashes rested on cherubic cheeks. His lips were slightly pursed as if dolling out kisses, little boy promises of forgiveness and absolution.

Caleb didn't feel he deserved them.

He had awoken to the strange sensation of being pinned down on one side, opening his eyes to find a golden head resting upon his chest. Turning his head to one side, he saw Mac smiling at him.

"Hey," he murmured.

"Hey yourself," the doctor replied. "Feeling better?"

Caleb was. The various aches appeared to have diminished, the thumping headache had left and even his broken wrist was pleasantly numb.

Caleb gestured to the boy curled by his side. "What's going on?"

"He was worried," Mac replied, unable to hide his widening grin. "He wouldn't believe me when I told him you'd be alright. It appears he felt he trusted only the evidence of his own ears."

"What?"

"He wanted to listen to your heart beating, Caleb. Dean wanted to be certain you were fine, but fell asleep not long after he nominated himself your personal watchdog."

Caleb felt oddly touched by Dean's gesture and lightly ran his fingers over the child's hair. "Is he okay?"

Mac shifted on his chair. "I believe so, yes. The memories are gone, at any rate and with them their side effects."

"I thought I'd done something wrong," Caleb admitted. "When he woke up and couldn't remember John."

"He went through quite a bit of stress, son, and was, in a sense, comatose for several hours. It's a perfectly normal circumstance."

"You might have warned us, Mac."

His father smiled. "And missed that touching scene between you two boys?"

"You're a sucker for hallmark, you know that?" Caleb glanced once more at Dean, his fingers still running through the soft hair. "I bet you're getting a kick out of this little stunt?"

"It's a scene to warm any father's heart. I worried that you didn't really bond with the boys, Caleb."

"Why's it so important, anyway?"

"They're John's children, son. You're going to be seeing an awful lot of them. Go back to sleep, Caleb. I'll be here when you wake up." Mac stood and reached to lift Dean.

Caleb shifted slightly. "Leave him be, Mac. You'll only wake him."

Mac lifted an eyebrow.

"He's had a long day, dad. And you said yourself, he's my watchdog, making sure my hearts still beating."

"Dean's a loyal child," Mac mused. "He was adamant he was going to look after you."

Caleb smiled, feeling the pull of sleep tug him under once more. "He's not such a bad kid." He admitted. "For a brat."

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John sat down at the old wooden table, his coffee mug in hand.

"I don't like the idea of another group working against us," he growled. The night had been long and the relief of finding the boys only allowed tired muscles and weary eyes to make themselves known.

"I have to admit I don't like it myself," Jim agreed.

"Have either one of them told you anything?" John asked.

"No. Mac can't get much more out of them than I could, Delanely's blocking him again."

"We'll just have to be vigilant," John sighed. "One more thing to keep an eye out for."

"I'm going to do some digging, don't worry John."

Winchester nodded. "Did either one of you find anything about what caused those memories?"

"Both men claimed they had no idea what the memories contained. I believe them."

"Dean mentioned a demon..."

"We don't know what it was, John," Jim cautioned softly. "He was four, frightened and half asleep. Who knows what he saw? At that age –"

"At that age? How many four year olds can identify a demonic entity, Jim?"

The Pastor sighed. "He listens, John. He's termed it a demon based on what you've said in front of him."

"What?"

"How often was Dean present when you spoke with Bobby? I don't need to tell you children are like sponges."

John raked a hand over his face, feeling every minute of that night. "He wasn't ... I didn't think he could ... I didn't know he was listening that whole time, not until Mac told me how aware he was."

"He was listening."

John was silent a moment, trying to corral his scattered thoughts.

"There's no way to see those memories now?"

Jim smiled sadly at his friend. "No, John. Mac thinks they're gone. He said Dean'll most likely forget all about having had them in time."

"How can he do that?" John wondered.

"They weren't his to begin with," the Pastor replied softly. "I suspect he'll bury what's left of them deep into his subconscious."

"And Caleb?"

"Mac feels the boy's so exhausted he'll have a hard time remembering them too," Jim admitted, somewhat relieved, if only privately. "Some random images, perhaps."

John seemed to sag visibly at that news.

"So, we're no closer to finding what killed Mary? No new information as to what it was?" he shook his head, his voice bitter with disappointment. "Just more questions and half finished ideas."

Jim laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, John."

And he was. But if it meant that the little boy sleeping upstairs was safe for the time being, he could live with a little sorrow.


End file.
